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DE TARGY’S EYES STILL RESTED UPON THE YOUNG GIRL, 
EAGERLY DRINKING IN HER BEAUTY, AND SHE IN- 
STINCTIVELY FELT THAT A CRISIS IN HER LIFE WAS 
APPROACHING.-(P. 22.) 





THE PKIMKOSE SERIES. 


Issued Monthly. 

Subscription Price, $6.oo Per Year. 

No. 8.-0CT0BER, 1890. 

Copyrighted, 1890, by Street <& Smith. 

Entet'ed at the Post-Office, New York, as Second-Class Matter. 


A Parisian Romance. 


NOVELIZED FROM THE CELEBRATED PLAY OF THE SAME 
NAME BY OCTAVE FEUILLET. 




A. D. HALL. 




NEW YORK; 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 


31 Rose Street. 




CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER. page. 

I — Love’s Young Dream 7 

II —In the Midst of Life 26 

III — The De Targys’ Ball 42 

IV — Baron Chevrial’s Opinions ^6 

V — Skeletons 69 

VI — Before and Behind the Scenes 73 

VII— The Mystery Disclosed 85 

VIII— Rosa’s Speculations 96 

IX— All Lost Save Honor 121 

X — The Little Rift Within the Lute 141 

XI — Breaking a Butterfly 166 

XII — Over the Brink 177 

XIII — The Dance of Death 184 

XIV — Illusive Hopes 207 

XV — In Spite of all 224 




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A PARISIAN ROMANCE 


CHAPTER L 
love’s young dream. 

It was high noon ; one of those rare and perfect 
days in May, when all nature seems to smile, and 
the human being most harassed by the buffets of 
fortune feels that, after all, there are some moments 
in life that are well worth the living. 

The field and meadows of the village of Sainte 
Roche, refreshed by the showers of the evening 
before, lay green and fair beneath the cloudless 
sky ; the little river rippled and sparkled between 
its grassy banks, a stream of liquid diamonds ; the 
air was Tieavy with the odor of the blossoming fruit- 
trees lining the white, little frequented roads that 
wound in graceful curves before the cottages and 
the few dwellings of more pretensions that the 
hamlet could boast, and whose margins of turf were 
sprinkled with wild flowers, blue, white, and yellow ; 


8 


A FABISIAT^ BOMANGE, 


and the sun poured its radiance over all, flashing 
upon the large gilded cross of the church and cover- 
ing the white walls of the sacred edifice with a 
shimmering network of shadows, as its light sifted 
through the trembling leaves of the aspens. 

In the open space before the church, which could 
scarcely be dignified by the name of square, were 
gathered together all the idle population of the 
village, not such a crowd after all ; perhaps thirty 
or forty people at the most. Half a dozen carriages 
waited before the portals, the most conspicuous 
being a handsome coupe, with white rosettes adorn- 
ing the horses’ heads and long streamers of the 
same spotless hue attached to the shoulders of the 
coachman. The latter functionary sat bolt upright 
upon his box, motionless, save for an occasional 
whisk of the whip, to drive the flies from the backs 
of the horses, and, like a servant of good family, 
apparently entirely impervious to the familiar, and 
not altogether complimentary, comments of the 
ubiquitous small boy. 

The ceremony that was being celebrated svithin 
was long, and the patience of the expectant villagers 
was beginning to be exhausted, when at last the 
battants were flung open by the old verger, and the 
newly married couple appeared upon the threshold. 

If the old familiar adage, “Happy is the bride 
that the sun shines on,” be true, then the Baroness 
Chevrial, recently Mademoiselle Armande d’ Am- 
bleuse ought to have been doubly blessed. But the 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


9 


face beneath the bands of hair of the color of ripe 
wheat, crowned with the white bonnet, beautiful 
as it was, and calm and composed, did not wear 
that expression of blushing rapture which is usually 
to be seen upon the face of the girl who has just 
been united to the man of her choice. The bride- 
groom, however, was smiling enough, a man of 
perhaps forty-five, who, in the strong sunlight 
looked a little more, in spite of the clever work of 
his valet, who had once been in the service of a 
famous actor, and who was an artist in concealing 
the ravages of time and dissipation beneath a clever 
make-up. With a step which was a trifie too elabo- 
rately springy in its affectation of youth, Baron 
Chevrial led his bride down the carpeted steps, 
aided her to enter the coupe, carefully protecting 
her snowy draperies from contact with the wheels, 
and then, following her, seated himself by her side. 

The coachman touched up his horses, and, amid 
the shouts of the bystanders, the carriage started 
off at a rapid pace. The other carriages were soon 
filled with the gayly dressed wedding party and the 
crowd, the spectacle over, gradually dispersed, 
leaving the place deserted, save for two gentlemen, 
in frock coats, light trousers, high hats, and with a 
flower in their button-holes, who still lingered upon 
the steps. One was young, twenty-three or four 
years old, with a slender, well-knit figure, and 
whose features, while not regularly handsome, wore 
a bright, frank expression, which is perhaps more 


10 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


attractive than mere beauty. The other was much 
older, with a heavy gray mustache and hair 
whitened upon the temples. Doctor Chesnel had 
passed many years in ministering to the ailments 
of the body, but, nevertheless, or rather perhaps for 
that very reason, his interest in the troubles of 
.heart and mind of his fellow-beings was keen, his 
sympathy unfailing, and his charity boundless. His 
one fault was an occasional bitterness of tongue; 
his appreciation and dislike of any weakness were 
so strong and’ his powers of sarcasm so great that 
he was sometimes led into saying more than he had 
intended; this fault, however, no one was more 
fully aware of or regretted more deeply than the 
good doctor himself. 

‘‘Well,” said Chesnel, laying his hand on his 
young companion’s shoulder, “the two loving hearts 
are made one, the sacrifice is accomplished, I mean, 
the ceremony is completed, and there is no use in 
lingering here any longer. What are your plans 
for the rest of the day, De Targy?” 

“I thought I would go for a walk this afternoon.” 

“The very thing. You know I am taking a com- 
plete holiday to-day, and if you will not be bored 
by an old fellow like myself, I believe I’ll join 
you.” 

The young man hesitated a moment, a hesitation 
so slight, however, as to be scarcely perceptible, 
and then he answered, cordially : 


A FABISIAN MOMAJVCJS. 


11 


“ By all means, my dear doctor. I shall be de- 
lighted to have your company.” 

The two men descended the steps and were soon 
sauntering along the smooth highway. The sun 
was too hot at that time of day to admit of any 
very brisk exercise, and, besides, fast walking is 
not so conducive to conversation as a more leisurely 
pace. 

“ Mademoiselle d’ Ambleuse, I beg her pardon, the 
Baroness Chevrial,” remarked the doctor, ‘‘is a very 
beautiful woman, and her beauty has drawn a prize 
in the matrimonial market.” 

His companion gave him a quick glance as he 
replied : 

“Do you really think so?” 

“ Why not? She will have everything that wealth 
and position can give her. What more can a woman 
want?” 

“ I don’t know, but, if Madame Chevrial is what 
she promised to be when a girl of fourteen, she will 
require more to make her happy than mere matri- 
monial comforts.” 

The doctor laughed good-naturedly, as he whisked 
the head off a daisy with his cane. 

“Love, eh?” he said. “Ah! youth, especially the 
male youth, is ever romantic. My dear follow, 
Cupid has long ago been dethroned by Plutus.” 

“I hope she will be happy,” said De Targy, 
thoughtfully. 

“ Happy ! How can we tell when one is happy ? 


12 


A FAEISIAN JROJfAI^CK 


Do we know when we are so ourselves? Happiness 
is everywhere and nowhere, and its proper defini- 
tion has yet to be found.” 

De Targy was silent for a moment, then, as if 
struck by a sudden thought, he said, abruptly : 

‘‘Doctor, tell me something about the baron. You 
know I have been away so long from France, that, 
although Armande d’ Ambleuse was one of my 
childhood’s playmates, and her father was my 
father’s intimate friend, I know very little of what 
her life has been the last few years, and, until two 
days ago, I had never laid eyes on the man she has 
married. What is he like?” 

“ He has been fairly good-looking, and is so still, 
thanks to the resources of art. He is an admirable 
painting upon a worn-out canvas.” 

“Pshaw! I don’t mean his personal appearance. 
What is he like in mind and heart?” 

The doctor’s face changed, and his manner, which 
had been half-bantering, became very serious. 

“The baron,” he said, gravely, “is a strange man, 
a product of our nineteenth century. He has plenty 
of intelligence, is well educated, and not a boor. 
His manners, if he chooses, can be perfect, al- 
though, perhaps, he is a gentleman by effort rather 
than by instinct. He inherited a comfortable for- 
tune, which he has increased enormously by skillful 
speculations on the Bourse, and is now one of the 
first bankers in Paris. Of his qualities of heart, I 
cannot speak so highly. When his own interests 


A PAIilblAN E02IAXCE. 


13 


are at stake he is merciless, and has no care for 
those he casts down and tramples upon in his own 
rise. He is self-indulgent to the last degree, and 
his own well being is the one thought of his ex- 
istence. Take him, all in all,” concluded the doctor, 
in a lighter tone, “he is one of the most respected 
men in all Paris.” 

“What!” exclaimed De Targy, in amazement. 
“ How can people like such a selfish brute as you 
paint him to be?” 

“Pardon me, my dear boy,” rejoined the doctor, 
quietly, with a twinkle in his eye which belied the 
apparent cynicism of his words ; “ I said respected, 
not liked. We like a man for the good he does; we 
respect him for his power to do evil.” 

De Targy knew the doctor well enough to take 
this speech for what it was worth, so he laughed 
and said : 

“You are a living exemplification, doctor, of the 
assertion that words were given us to conceal our 
thoughts ; you so rarely say what you me^n. To 
hear you, a stranger would take you for a misan- 
thrope.” 

“Heaven forbid!” retorted Chesnel, grimly. “Mis- 
anthrophy is a terrible malady ; it makes one see 
things as they really are.” 

“I won’t attempt to discuss that question with 
you, my dear doctor. I am no match for you in an 
argument. But, seriously, I am greatly interested 
for his wife’s sake, in what you tell me of Chevrial. 


14 


A FABmAJ^ BOMABCM 


If he is as selfish as you say, what induces him to 
marry Mademoiselle d’ Ambleuse? She was en- 
tirely dependent upon relatives for support, and 
brought him no dowry whatever. Is he in love with 
her?” 

Hm-m-m ! If passion be love, I suppose he is. 
He coveted her beauty, and knew the only way to 
possess it was through the blessing of a priest. I 
told you he has never known how to deny himself 
anything, and it was so in this case. Besides, he is 
rich enough to overlook the lack of money, other 
things being equal. Then, too, you must remem- 
ber, the baron is no longer so young as he once 
was, and when a man has reached a certain age, 
there is nothing like marriage to rejuvenate him.” 

‘‘ And so he has taken Mademoiselle d’ Ambleuse 
as he would a dose of medicine,” exclaimed De 
Targy, half -angrily, ‘‘a sort of draught from Ponce 
de Leon’s fountain.” 

“Something of that sort,” replied the doctor, 
laughing. “I remember meeting him at the 
races of Longchamp about a year ago. ‘Well, 
baron,’ I greeted him, ‘still young and victorious 
in the lists of love?’ ‘J^o, doctor,’ he replied, ‘I am 
afraid I am growing old, so, at the first touch of 
gout, when I am obliged to stay by the fireside, I 
shall giv^e myself the luxury of a real wife’ (those 
were his words) : ‘if I can find some one really at- 
tractive, I shall take her. ’” 


A PABISIAN ROMANGR 


15 


A. charming prospect for my old playmate. Do 
you know the baron welly doctor?” 

‘‘Yes, I am his physician, and so have had many 
opportunities of studying him closely. I am in his 
confidence.” 

“You abuse it a little,” said De Targy, with a 
smile. 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 

“Bah!” he said. “He is no friend of mine. He 
is simply a subject of observation. I study the 
workings of his mind and the vagaries of his moral 
nature as I would dissect a cadaver at the hospital. 
But let us talk of something pleasanter. ” 

For the next half-hour, the two men strolled on 
together, the doctor chatting gayly on all sorts of 
subjects from “Shakespeare to the musical glasses,” 
touching them all lightly but yet in a way which 
showed that he was a man of vast reading and in- 
formation. His companion was much less talkative, 
answering chiefiy in monosyllables, but this mat- 
tered little to Chesnel, who loved a good listener; 
moreover he was very fond of the lad, whom he 
had known from boyhood, and was always glad to 
be in his company. 

At last they came to a cross-road, about four miles 
from Sainte Roche, and the doctor began to think 
of the walk back, and concluded that he had come 
about far enough. 

“I say, my boy,” stopping and leaning against 
the milestone. “How far do you propose to go? 


16 


A PABISIAJ^ BOMAJ^rCM 


Isn’t it about time to think of retracing our steps?” 

De Targy blushed a little. 

“I had intended to go as far as Limon,” he stam« 
mered. “To tell you the truth, doctor, I have a call 
to make there.” 

The doctor stared. 

“The devil you say!” he growled. “Why didn’t 
you tell me that before? But, never mind, Henri,” 
he added, kindly, pitying the young man’s evident 
embarrassment. “I shall get back by myself very 
well.” 

“I am sorry,” began De Targy, “and ” 

“Oh, that’s all right, my boy. Don’t say any- 
thing more about it.” 

“ If you are sure you don’t mind, I would like to 
keep my engagement.” 

“Why, of course, of course. I shall see you be- 
fore I go back to Paris, I suppose?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

With a wave of the hand, Chesnel turned and 
was soon lost to sight in a turn of the road. De 
Targy watched his retreating figure a moment, and 
then, vaulting over the low rail fence, struck across 
the fields at a more rapid gait, whistling softly to 
himself the refrain of a Spanish love song he had 
heard sung at Seville to the accompaniment of a 
mandolin. 

The country is like a beautiful woman, devoid of 
coquetry ; you must know her well to love her, but 
when once you have felt her charm, she attaches 


A BOJIA^rCF. 


17 


you to her forever. De Targy, in his travels, had 
always avoided cities as much as possible, and he 
was fully alive to all the charms of field and wood- 
land. On this exquisite day, he rejoiced in the 
clear sky, the pure air, the springy turf, the song of 
the birds, and the thousand indications that winter 
had released the land from its chill embrace, and 
fair summer was close at hand. He crossed the 
field with a step as light as his heart, and plunging 
into the cool shades of a little wood, was soon on 
the borders of the pretty town of Limon. Five 
minutes’ walk now brought him to a quaint, old- 
fashioned inn, with queer gables and odd mullioned 
windows. It had formerly been a manor-house, 
and still retained much of its ancient dignity. In 
fact, almost the only token that it was now a place 
of entertainment for man and beast was a tall post 
bearing a picture of a lion rampant, and beneath 
the words ‘‘Le Lion d’ Or.” Beside the house de- 
scended a lane, and in a few moments stopped at a 
wooden gate, which led into the garden behind the 
hostelry. A pretty garden it was, cool and shady, 
surrounded by a high bridge, filled with ancestral 
trees and planted with old-fashioned fiowers, holly- 
hocks, pinks, and marigolds, and with its sanded 
walks primly outlined in box. The picture that 
met De Targy’s eyes, as he stood just without the 
gate was lovely enough to more than repay him 
for his long tramp. Beneath a branching oak, in 
a low wicker chair, reclined the white-robed form 


18 


A FABISIAN ROMANCK 


of a young girl. Her simple gown, which fell in 
graceful folds about her svelte figure, was belted in 
at the waist by a broad blue ribbon, and a knot of 
the same azure hue confined her bright chestnut 
hair, which grew in low ripples over her broad, 
white brow, as in the bust of Clytie. One delicate 
hand supported her head, and the other held a 
dainty little volume, upon which the long-lashed 
eyes were fixed. She was so absorbed that De 
Targy’s quiet approach had passed unnoticed. For 
a moment or two, the young man stood in rapt 
contemplation of the exquisite vision before him, 
and then, feeling very much as if he were inter- 
rupting the devotions of some fair saint, he said, in 
a low voice: 

^ May a mere mortal be allowed to intrude upon 
your domains, Titania?” 

The girl started, the book fell from her hand, 
and as her eyes met those which were bent upon 
her with a look of unmistakable admiration, a 
bright fiush suffused the delicate oval of her cheeks, 
and she murmured, rising to her feet. 

“Oh! Is it you. Monsieur de Targy?” 

“Yes,” opening the gate and advancing to her 
side, “were you expecting me?” 

“I thought perhaps you might come,” she an- 
swered, demurely, lowering her eyes. 

The momentary color had died away, and she 
was rapidly recovering her self-possession. As she 
became calmer, it was the man’s turn to evince 


A PARISIAN ROMANCR 


19 


embarrassment. He stood twirling his hat, and not 
knowing exactly what to do next. 

“Won’t you sit down?” she asked, resuming her 
seat and raising the book from where it had fallen. 

De Targy drew up a chair and accepted the 
invitation, resting his arm upon an old sun-dial, 
which, overgrown with ivy, worm eaten and 
weather stained, looked as if it had been there 
from time immemorial. 

“How pretty this garden is!” he remarked, a 
trifle awkwardly. 

“Is it not?” she replied, brightly. “I love it. I 
have passed so many happy hours here. I have 
always been so grateful to the English lady who 
told Aunt Reine about this charming place. I feel 
so completely isolated from the world and all its 
troubles. ” 

“Is madam visible, by the way?” 

“No, she is suffering to-day from one of her bad 
headaches. Perhaps, I should ask you into the 
house, but it is so much pleasanter here that I have 
not the heart to do so.” 

“Did you miss me yesterday?” asked De Targy, 
somewhat inconsequentially. 

“A little. Why did you not come?” 

“I was afraid I had been coming here too often.” 

“That is unkind. You could not do that.” 

“Really?” 

“ Really.” 

De Targy ’s heart bounded. Did she mean it? 


20 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


Was it possible that she cared a little for him? He 
longed to put his fate to the touch, but the words 
would not come to his lips. Perhaps she realized 
something of what was passing in his mind, for, as 
she glanced furtively at him beneath her long 
lashes, a bewitching smile played about her lips. 
For a few moments neither spoke, and then, she 
said, holding up the book she had been reading: 
“You see, I think of you, even during your ab- 
sence, truant! I have been reading your poems 
over again.” 

“Yes!” 

“Yes. Aren’t you pleased?” 

“ I am pleased to think that my poor efforts have 
helped you to kill time.” 

“ Don’t speak of killing time. Who is it that says 
to kill time is a sort of suicide? The days are not 
half long enough for me. Besides, I will not allow 
you to call these poems poor. They are lovely.” 

“You don’t know how happy it makes me to have 
you say so.” 

“ Indeed ! Then what will you say when I tell 
you that I have committed one of them to memory, 
and, more than that, set it to music.” 

“You have ! Oh ! do sing it to me.” 

“You must bring me my guitar, then.” 

“Where is it.” 

“ On the sofa, in the parlor. Ask one of the maids 
for it.” 

As he strode rapidly across the lawn Marcelle 


A PARISIAN ROMA^N'CK 


21 


Rigaud followed his straight, manly figure with her 
eyes, a tender look in their brown depths. A month 
ago she was unaware of his very existence, and 
now — and now she scarcely dared to confess even 
to herself how much his presence or absence meant 
to her. 

“It is a Provencal air,” she said, as he returned 
with the instrument, “ that I found in an old music 
book of Aunt Reine’s, and it seemed to me that the 
melody was peculiarly fitted to the words of your 
poem.” 

De Targy threw himself down on the grass be- 
side her, and with his eyes fixed with a hungry 
look upon the fiower-like face above him, waited 
for her to begin. 

Marcelle passed the blue ribbon of the guitar 
about her neck, and, after sweeping the strings 
once or twice with her fingers, sang, in a low, rich 
voice, the following serenade : 


“Cool, tranquil shadows fill the silent woods; 

We are alone, far from the noisy world, 

A boundless ecstasy above us broods, 

And life’s rude care fades like a cloud unfurled. 

Hark, my belov’d, a flute, far, far away, 

Breathed faintly forth a plaintive strain of love ; 
Borne on the fitful breeze of waning day. 

No other sound is heard in all the grove. 

Oh, ecstasy of love ! Oh, joy of life ! 

Oh, passing dream which I have made mine own ! 
Divine delight with which my soul is rife. 

Filled like a sea shell with the billows’ moan ! 


22 


A FAJilSIAIi BOMAI^CK, 


Sleep, oh, my love, close thy great, calm eyes. 
Thy weary eyes, thy eyes so true and dear ; 
And, leaning o’er thee, I will drink thy sighs, 
The perfume of thy beauty blooming near.” 


Not content with endowing Marcelle Rigaud with 
more than ordinary beauty, the gods had added the 
gift of a really wonderful voice, deep, clear, and 
silvery as a bell. With a little cultivation it would 
have created a furor among the dilletante of even 
Paris, the most cultured city in the world. It can 
easily be imagined, then, what was the effect upon 
her single auditor, the man who adored her, and 
who now listened to his own words, sung in a 
manner that gave them a meaning he had never 
fancied until now they possessed. 

As the last low, sweet notes died away, there was 
perfect silence. For some moments neither spoke, 
but the unuttered words were perhaps more elo- 
quent than any speech could have been. De Targy’s 
eyes still rested upon the young girl, eagerly drink- 
ing in her beauty, and she, although apparently 
unconscious, instinctively felt that a crisis in her 
life was approaching. 

De Targy was the first to speak. 

“No wards,” he said, slowly, “can tell you the 
happiness it gives me to hear words of my com- 
position sung by you. I ” 

He stopped short. A sort of despair took posses- 
sion of him as, in his modest estimation of himself, 
he thought that his longing to have this girl for his 


A PAl:ISIA^^ 


23 


very own was as hopeless of fulfillment as the 
child’s desire for the moon. 

A woman’s wits are always quicker than a man’s, 
especially in matters of the tender passion. Mar- 
cello was as well acquainted with the state of his 
heart as she was with that of her own, and, feeling 
sure of the happy outcome of it all, she could afford 
to indulge in a little malicious enjoyment of his 
confusion. As a cat with a mouse, a woman de- 
lights to tease and torment her lover, before putting 
him out of his misery. So, Marcello, looking down 
with a mischievous smile upon the poor fellow, 
who lay both literally and figuratively at her feet, 
said: 

“Monsieur de Targy, who was the inspiration of 
that poem, an Andalusian with dark hair and 
liquid eyes? or was it a blonde Gretchen of some 
German town?” 

Gathering all his courage, determining to put an 
end now, once and for all, to his miserable sus- 
pense, De Targy replied, in a voice which shook a 
little in spite of himself : 

“Neither, Marcelle.” 

This was the first time that he had ever addressed 
her by her Christian name, and the girl fiushed 
crimson as she heard it. 

“Neither, Marcelle. 1 have had in my life, as 
has every young man, passing fancies. I have 
lived much away from my family, and I felt the 
need of affection. But I knew always that it was 


24 


A FABISIAI^ BOMA^^OK 


not real love, the love which satisfies, the love 
which comforts. If you have read all the poems in 
that book you will know from them that I am 
speaking the truth.” 

He had risen to his feet and was standing close 
beside her. All his nervousness had vanished. He 
was very pale, but his voice was steady and his 
bearing composed. 

“ What have you found in them except the 
melancholy inseparable from the feeling that every- 
thing in one’s life is incomplete and ephemeral? 
The verses you have just sung, it is true, are full of 
satisfied happiness, but while they are as sincere as 
the others, they are less real. Do you understand 
me? They did not come from my brain by an effort 
of the will; they came from my heart and I have 
felt what they express ; but they were addressed to 
a fancied ideal rather than to any living woman. 
She had no name, no form.” 

“You will doubtless some day find your ideal.” 

“I have found it already,” he cried, his voice 
quivering with passionate longing. “ Oh ! Marcelle ! 
Marcelle! don’t you see? don’t you understand? I 
love you! Put me out of my suspense, send me 
away from you now, and I will never trouble you 
again — but — I love you!” ' 

With lips half parted, and the warm color coming 
and going on her lovely face, she raised her eyes to 
his, eyes in which glowed the light that never was 
on land or sea. Then, with a little motion for him 


A FABI6JAir BOMAN'CB, 


25 


to follow her, she crossed to the old sun-dial and 
pointing to a long black pencil mark upon its face, 
she said, softly : 

“ See ! Tuesday, when you went away, I marked 
the place where the shadow fell. And so, if you 
should leave me forever, a black shadow would fall 
across my life.” 

His cause was won, and, mingled with all the 
rapture that welled up in his heart, was the feeling 
almost akin to awe, which every honorable man 
experiences, when in his hands is placed the life of 
a pure young girl, for weal or for woe, to make or 
to mar it at his pleasure. 

Gently he drew the unresisting form toward him, 
and very tenderly, very reverently, he laid his lips 
upon hers, in love’s sweet seal. 

Oh, ecstasy of love ! Oh, joy of life ! 


26 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE, 


CHAPTER II. 

IN THE MIDST OF LIFE. 

Henri de Targy was an only son. His father, a 
man of considerable property, whom Henri resem- 
bled in neither appearance nor disposition, in fact 
no father and son could be more unlike, was cold, 
reserved and self-contained; he frowned upon all 
emotion and looked upon enthusiasm as something 
abnormal and disagreeable; with his son^s sensi- 
tiveness and impulsiveness, he had absolutely no 
;ympathy ; from his earliest childhood, it had been 
flenri's object to be as little as possible in his 
father’s presence, and even now, when he had 
arrived at man’s estate his paternal relative in- 
variably inspired him with a mingled feeling of 
fear and repulsion. Madame de Targy, a woman of 
more than ordinary beauty and attainments, chilled 
and disappointed, from the earliest days of her 
married life, by her husband’s frigidity, had poured 
forth all the wealth of her affection upon her son, 
an affection which was fully reciprocated, for 
Henri adored his mother. 

The boy’s early education was obtained at the best 
schools and lyceums of Paris, and, at twenty, he set 
out for a lengthened tour in foreign lands. Mon- 


A FABTSIA^ JiOMAA'’CK 


27 


sieur ftv fargy, the elder, was by no means averse 
to his &jn’s leaving home; so little sympathy and 
congeniUity existed between them, that it was a 
relief rather than otherwise to have him away. 

Perhaps, too, he was a trifle jealous of his wife’s 
affection, but if this were so, he never betrayed it 
by word or deed. He gave his son a liberal allow- 
ance, for he was by no means avaricious ; it may be 
that he considered any money discussion beneath 
his dignity and an interference with his comfort. 
He asked no questions of Henri in regard to his 
plans and gave him no advice, nor did he expect or 
desire any confldence from him. 

The first year Henri spent in Germany, chiefly in 
Dresden. He lived in one of the little pavilions of 
the Grosser Garten, as a pupil of Doctor Peschle, 
the famous professor in the Korner College. His 
life Avas as regular and monotonous as possible, the 
greater part of each day being devoted to study 
and learned discussions with the Herr Doctor on 
the abstruse doctrines of German philosophy. The 
only variety was an occasional visit to the theater, 
the open-air concerts on the Bruhlsche Terrase, the 
wonders of the Green Vaults or the superb picture- 
gallery, the finest in all Europe. He then spent a 
year in Italy and another in Spain, years not quite 
so full of rigorous application as the German one, 
but still far from being Avasted in mere pleasure 
seeking. 

Of course a man of De Targy’s age and tempera- 


28 


A PABISfAT^ BOMAI^CB, 


merit had not been without many a passing flirtation 
with the dark-eyed senoritas of Spain and the azure 
orbed German madchens, but they had been merely 
flirtations and nothing more, po2(r passee le temps, that 
was all. As to the damsels of the half world, his 
nature was too refined and his ideals too high for 
him to find much pleasure in their company. Deep 
down in his heart, moreover, was a picture of some 
fair maiden, the adorable she who was to round 
out all his existence, and he was determined to 
have nothing to regret and wish undone when he 
should at last meet his fate. Such men are rare in 
this age of materialism, but, to the credit of human 
nature, they do exist. 

So it was with a heart whole and with nothing in 
his record to prevent his looking his mother in the 
face, that Henri de Targy returned to his native 
land after three years’ wanderings. 

His mother, whose life had been forlorn enough 
without her idol, and whose only consolation had 
been his frequent letters, was overjoyed to have her 
boy once more with her. 

His father he found greatly changed ; he seemed 
to have aged in many ways, without any of that 
softening that years sometimes bring to such harsh 
natures as his. He had become very irritable, the 
least trifle would bring on an outburst of passion, 
and Henri found his relations with him more im- 
possible and unpleasant than ever. 

It was early in April when he returned, and his 


A PARIiSlAN ROMANCE. 


29 


family were established at their country-house at 
Sainte Roche, where it was their habit to pass eight 
months of the year, the other four being devoted to 
Paris. 

If it had not been for his unfeigned delight at 
being once more with his mother, Henri would 
have found life in the little village intolerably dull. 
There were but two or three families of his own 
rank in life there, and of these the Ambleuses with 
whom he had been most intimate in days gone by, 
were at present in Paris, for the purpose of pur- 
chasing the trousseau of their niece, Armande, 
who was shortly to become Baroness Chevrial. 

Fortunately, Henri was fond of field sports, and 
the meadows about Sainte Roche abounded in snipe 
and plover. One afternoon, as he was returning 
after a successful day among the birds, he was 
walking briskly through the little wood between 
Limon and Sainte Roche, when, at a turn in the 
path, he was suddenly startled to see a young girl 
sitting at the foot of a tree. Raising his hat with a 
word or two of inarticulate apology for his intru- 
sion, he was about to pass on, when he was arrested 
by a plaintive exclamation of “Monsieur!” 

He turned quickly and met a pair of brown eyes 
uplifted to his with an expression of pitiful sup- 
plication. 

“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he said. “Did you 
call me?” 


30 


A FAJil^i'IAI^ BOMANOK 


The girl laughed now, but a laugh which died 
away iu a sort of sob. 

“It is too absurd,” she said, “but, if I had let you 
go by, I am afraid I should have been obliged to 
stay here all night. In attempting to reach some 
flowers which grew within those bushes there, I 
turned my ankle and I simply cannot step upon it.” 

Again the dark eyes were raised to his, and, 
Henri felt his heart give a sort of leap within his 
breast. “By Jove! but she’s a beauty !” bethought, 
and then said aloud ; 

“ I am very fortunate, then, to have been passing 
at just this time. Is it very bad?” 

“ I am afraid so. It pains me badly whenever I 
move.” 

“Try, if you cannot rise.” 

The girl took his proffered hand, and managed 
gradually to rise to her feet, but at the first step she 
attempted to take, an expression of pain contracted 
her features and she clutched Henri’s arm in an 
effort to steady herself. 

“It is no use,” she said. “I cannot bear my 
weight upon it.” 

“Do you live far from here?” asked Henri, draw- 
ing the little hand close within his arm. “Don’t be 
afraid to lean upon me.” 

“Not far. Do you know where the Lion d’ Or is, 
jus-t the other side of the woods?” 

“Oh! yes, very well.” 

“I am staying there.” 


A FAIIISJAN JiOJfAAXT. 


31 


It was not far, as she said, but it might as well 
have been miles, so far as her powers of loco- 
motion went. 

‘‘It is a pretty serious matter,” said Henri, half 
laughing, “ but I think we can manage it. I shall 
have to carry you, that’s all.” 

The girl flushed and shrank a little from him, but 
a twinge from the injured ankle forced her to keep 
his arm. 

“You need have no fear,” he continued, gently, 
“ I can carry you easily, and there is really nothing 
else to be done.” 

She glanced up at him half-shyly, half-confi- 
dently. 

“I am not afraid of you,” she said, and then she 
smiled. 

“You will trust me, then?” 

“Needs must, I suppose.” 

Instructing her to put one arm about his neck 
and rest her weight upon him, Henri stooped, and 
in another moment had raised her in his arms as 
easily and gently as if she had been a child. 

With her soft arm about his neck and her per- 
fumed breath fanning his cheek, the way seemed 
all too short. When the inn was reached, Henri 
deposited his fair burden on the sofa in the parlor, 
and turned to explain the situation to a stout, rosy- 
cheeked lady who came hurrying in, in alarm, and 
whom the girl addressed as Aunt Heine. 

After ascertaining that the accident to the ankle 


32 


A FABISIAN BOMAI^CK 


was nothing serious, he took his leave, over- 
whelmed by the thanks of the aunt, which, how- 
ever, he at once ungratefully forgot after the half- 
whispered au revoir of the girl herself and the slight 
pressure of the hand, which sent the blood pulsing 
through his veins. 

Although it was rapidly growing dark, and he 
was certain to be late to dinner, he lingered for a 
full half-hour in the public room of the inn, chat- 
ting with the buxom landlady, and deftly extract- 
ing from the good woman all the information she 
was in possession of regarding her guests. It 
seemed that Madame Charteris, with her niece. 
Mademoiselle Marcelle Rigaud, had arrived there 
about two weeks before, and had taken rooms for 
the summer. The landlady was loud in their 
praises, but she seemed to know little of them, 
beyond the fact that they seemed to be comfortably 
off, although not rich. 

The next day Henri called, as in duty bound, to 
inquire for the young lady, and this call led to 
another, until scarcely a day passed without his 
walking over to Limon and appearing at the Lion 
d’ Or. It would have been difficult for him to ex- 
plain the extraordinary fascination which Made- 
moiselle Rigaud exercised over him. Lovely as she 
undoubtedly was, he had seen many women quite 
as beautiful, many who were far more brilliant, 
but this girl with the brown eyes and the russet 
hair, drew him toward her as the magnet draws 


A PAHISIAJ^ POMAmZ 


33 


the needle. For the first time in his life Henri de 
Targy was irrevocably, hopelessly in love, and he 
knew it. He knew that all his hopes of happiness 
were dependent on her lips, but, with the modesty 
which was a conspicuous characteristic of his 
nature, he was filled with racking fears as to the 
result. To any looker on possessed of the slightest 
shrewdness, however, there would have been no 
doubt as to Marcello’s feelings. Brought up in the 
utmost seclusion by her aunt, who was her only 
near relative, and but recently emancipated from 
the convent where she had received her education, 
this was the first time in which she had ever been 
thrown into intimacy with a young man, and 
Henri, with all the advantages which foreign travel 
had given him, appeared to her a very admirable 
Crichton. His poems, which were the outcome of a 
rather pretty talent with here and there a more or 
less original thought, were as beautiful to her as 
the most exquisite creations of Victor Hugo or 
Alfred de Musset. Taking all the circumstances 
into consideration, it is not strange, then, that her 
heart should, Psyche-like, have burst its chrysalis 
and unfolded its wings. 

It is not to be supposed that Aunt Reine, who with 
all her good humor, was a person of considerable 
hard common sense, had been blind to the increas- 
ing intimacy between the young people and its 
probable results. She had instituted careful in- 
quiries as to De Targy’s character and his prospects 


34 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE, 


in life, and beinp: satisfied on both points, she had 
allowed things to take their course. She realized 
that with Marcelle’s slender, fortune, and the 
meager social advantages which she herself could 
offer her, it was more than doubtful if the girl 
would again meet with so desirable a parti. Per- 
haps, too, there was a little selfishness mingled 
with her resolve not to interfere ; fond as Madame 
Charteris undoubtedly was of her young niece, she 
was fonder still of her own comfort, and she was 
far-sighted enough to perceive that she could obtain 
much more enjoyment out of life, if unhampered 
by the wearisome and expensive chaperonage of a 
pretty girl. So the course of love for once flowed 
smoothly, until, as we have seen, it reached a happy 
harbor. 

It was with winged feet that Henri de Targy re- 
turned home through the woods and meadows on 
the evening of the Chevrial-Ambleuse nuptials, his 
soul singing a veritable pfean of thanksgiving for 
the blessing which had been vouchsafed him. He 
could scarcely believe as yet his good fortune ; the 
one woman he had ever loved, the one woman he 
should always love until death, the one woman who 
was the materialization of all his dreams, had 
accepted him and confessed that his love was re- 
turned ; and her aunt had graciously signified her 
consent, provided of course that the young man’s 
parents oh their side made no objection. As far 
as this proviso was concerned, Henri had no fears ; 


A PARISIAN ROMA NCR. 


35 


his mother would naturally feel badly at the thought 
of being no longer first in her boy’s heart, but he 
knew that she loved him too dearly to throw any 
obstacle in the way of his happiness; then, with 
the blind confidence of all lovers since the world 
began, who are never able to see any spot upon the 
shining brightness of their idol, he felt that Mar- 
celle’s perfection would soon win his mother and 
reconcile her to the proposed change. What his 
father’s opinions might be troubled him still less. 
As long as Monsieur de Targy was not annoyed 
with any of the details, he would probably, if past 
experience was any criterion, do the proper thing in 
regard to money matters, and interest himself no 
further in the whole affair, thankful that his son’s 
future had been arranged with so little trouble to 
himself. There had never existed any sympathy 
between the father and son, and there was not 
likely to be any now in this important crisis of the 
young man’s life. 

So it was with roseate dreams of an unclouded 
future, and with a heart overflowing with the joy 
of his new-found happiness that Henri turned into 
the avenue which led to his father’s house, a large, 
square, old-fashioned mansion with white walls 
and green blinds, the apotheosis of well-to-do bour- 
geoisie. 

As he ran up the stone steps and before he could 
ring, the massive door was thrown open by a re- 
spectable-looking man, in a sober livery, whose 


36 


A PAlilSIAN ROMANCE. 


face wore an expression of the utmost seriousness. 

Without noticing him, Henri threw his hat down 
upon the table, and asked, cheerily : 

“ Where is my mother, Francois?” 

The man hesitated a moment. 

‘‘Pardon me. Monsieur Henri,” he said,’' “but 
Doctor Chesnel wishes to see you at once in mon- 
sieur’s study.” 

Something in the man’s voice made Henri turn 
and glance hurriedly in his face. What he saw 
there was not reassuring. 

“ What is it, Francois?” he asked, quickly, his 
bright face clouding. “Has anything happened?” 

“The doctor will tell you. Monsieur Henri,” was 
the solemn reply. : 

Without waiting to question the man further, 
oppressed with a nameless dread, Henri turned and 
mounted the stairs two steps at a time. 

As he entered his father’s study, which vras a 
large room in the front of the house, connected by 
a narrow passage with the bed room occupied by 
Monsieur de Targy, the doctor rose from a chair 
beside the table and advanced to meet him with 
the grave manner of one who -has ill-tidings to 
disclose. 

“What has happened, doctor?” 

“My dear boy, I have very bad news for you.” 

Henri turned white as chalk. 

“My mother!” he gasped. 

“No, no,” returned the doctor, quickly. “Your 


A FABISIA^ BOMAm^K 


37 


mother is safe and well. Be calm. Sit down here, 
and I will tell you all about it.” 

And putting his arm through that of the now 
trembling young man, he led him to a chair and 
forced him into it. Then, seating himself near 
him, he said : 

“ It is your father. He has been taken suddenly 
ill.” 

A sigh, possibly one of relief, escaped from 
Henri’s lips. 

“On his return from the wedding, he fainted, 
and when I reached the house, after leaving you, 
I found them vainly endeavoring to restore him to 
consciousness. It was fortunate that I arrived 
when I did.” 

“Is it serious, doctor?” 

“ It is useless for me to conceal from you that it 
is. It is heart failure, and I have feared an attack 
of this sort for some time. At his request, I made 
an examination some months ago, and discovered 
then very serious organic trouble.” 

“Is he conscious now?” 

“Yes, your mother is with him.” 

Henri rose and turned toward the door which led 
to the bedroom, but the doctor motioned him back. 

“No,” he said, “you must not go in. The attack 
came, as I understand, during some discussion that 
he was having with your mother, and, as soon as 
he fully regained his consciousness, he insisted 
upon being left alone with her. Frankly, Henri, 


38 


A FAIilSIA^r boma:n'ck 


my skill is powerless here, the end is not far off, 
and I considered it best to allow him to have his 
way.” 

“ Do you mean, doctor, that my father is in imme- 
diate danger?” exclaimed Henri. 

“Yes. It is a question of hours.” 

The shock to Henri was great. Although he had 
cared but little for his father, it was impossible to 
hear of his being thus suddenly stricken down with 
no apparent warning, without a feeling of awe. 

There was but little conversation between the two 
men after this. They sat there in the dimly lighted 
study, each absorbed by his own thoughts, silently 
awaiting they knew not what. 

Suddenly, the stillness was broken by the sound 
of the opening of a door, and in another moment 
Madame de Targy stood before them. She still 
wore the superb reception-dress of gray silk and 
purple velvet she had appeared in at the wedding, 
but she had removed her jewels. Her snow-white 
hair had become unloosened and hung in elf locks 
about her pallid face; the lines about her mouth 
were drawn, and her eyes, in their hollow sockets, 
had that vacant stare seen in somnambulists. 

With an exclamation of horror, Henri started to 
his feet. His mother had aged ten years since the 
morning. WithoutVa word, he stretched out his 
arms to her, but with an imperious gesture, she 
waved him back : 

“ Do not come near me ! Do not touch me I Leave 


A FAIiISIA2^ FOMANCK 


39 


me to myself,” she said, in a 'voice which sounded 
far away, it was so low and hollow. 

Poor Henri was completely unnerved at the spec- 
tacle of his mother, who was usually so calm and 
self-possessed, in this state of physical and mental 
houleversemmt, 

“Mother! Mother!” he cried, in an agonized tone 
of entreaty. 

The voice that she had so loved seemed to rouse 
her ; her eyes, as they rested upon the beloved face 
of her only child, lost something of their stony look. 

“Oh! Henri,” she murmured, “ my boy, my boy ! 
What will become of you? What will become of 
you?” 

The doctor, who had not moved from his seat, was 
lost in amazement. Was it possible that after all 
this woman had loved the man who lay dying just 
beyond the partition, and who, during their whole 
married life, had never shown her any affection, 
but who, on the contrary, had treated her with a 
coldness that amounted at times almost to brutality? 

“Mother! Mother!” cried Henri again, advanc- 
ing and shaking her hand. “While there’s life, 
there’s hope.” 

“Hope!” she repeated. “Hope? There is no such 
thing as hope for us. Heaven knows that it is not 
of myself, but of you that I think. How will you, 
who have been brought up as you have, bear ” 

Suddenly she stopped, and, snatching away her 
hand, which had rested passively in Henri’s clasp, 


40 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE, 


she burst into a horrible mirthless laugh, which 
made both her listeners shiver. 

There, there!” she said. ‘‘I don’t know what I 
am saying. It is so sudden, Henri, you know— so 
sudden— so sudden.” 

As she spoke, she caught up her heavy train in 
one hand, and waving the other vacantly, she tot- 
tered, rather than walked, from the study, and in 
another moment, the door of her own apartment, 
across the hall, was heard to close. 

“Poor woman! Poor woman!” said the doctor, 
“she is completely unstrung. There is no cause for 
anxiety, my boy; it is but natural that it should be 
so. The shock has proved too much for her.” 

All that evening, as Henri sat by the bedside of 
his father, who had again lapsed into unconscious- 
ness, his brain was like a kaleidoscope, in the con- 
stant shifting of his thoughts from one thing to 
another. His love for Marcelle, her acceptance of 
that love, Madame Charteris’ consent, the Baron 
Chevrial and his newly made bride, his father’s 
sudden seizure, all these things crossed and re- 
crossed each other in a sort of fantastical dance 
through his wearied head; but the thing that 
troubled him the most and to which he returned 
;again and again, without obtaining any satisfac- 
tory solution was his mother’s strange behavior. It 
was impossible that his father’s sudden seizure 
could be the cause of it ; she had long ceased to feel 
any affection for him, and, although, as the doctor 


A FABISIAJV ICOMAJVCK 


41 


had said, it was undoubtedly a great shock to her, 
that would not in itself account for her extraordi- 
nary emotion. 

Worn out with vain speculation, Henri at last 
threw himself down on the sofa, leaving the doctor 
and Francois to watch beside the sick-bed, and 
soon, overcome by the varied emotions of the day, 
fell into a deep slumber. 

About three o’clock in the morning, he was 
roused by the doctor. A decided change for the 
worse had taken place. Madame de Targy, looking 
much more composed, stood near the head of the 
bed. Henri went to her side, and together they 
awaited the approach of the mysterious angel. 

Monsieur de Targy never recovered conscious- 
ness, but, as the first rays of the rising sun gilded 
the waking world, he breathed his last, dying, as 
he had lived, unloving and unloved. If it be true 
that a man’s place in this world is measured by the 
void he leaves behind him, it would be difficult to 
discover the benefit of this man’s life. 


42 


A FABIiilAN ROMANCE. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE DE TARGYS’ BALL. 

The apartment, an pre^nier, No. 67 Avenue de V 
Alma, near the Arc de Triomphe, was ablaze with 
light; carriage after carriage load of ladies in 
wonderfully concocted masses of satin, tulle, and 
lace, with their attendant cavaliers in black coats 
and white cravats, was deposited beneath the red 
and white striped awning stretched across the side- 
walk; bursts of music floated nowand then down 
from the windows, and all was gayety and laughter. 
For, to-night. Monsieur and Madame Henri de 
Targy were giving a grand ball to celebrate their 
return to the world, after two years of mourning. 

The event was one of more than usual interest, 
moreover, as it was young Madame de Targy’s 
dehut in Parisian society. Since her marriage, which 
had been solemnized very quietly about six months 
after the death of her husband’s father, she had 
lived in the country, seeing no society beyond the 
few families in the neighborhood, and Doctor Ches- 
nel, an old friend of the De Targys. At last, how- 
ever, the period of mourning was terminated, and, 
at the special request of Madame de Targy the 


A PABISIA^ BOMAJX'OK 43 

elder, the family had returned to Paris, and the 
young wife was to assume the place in society to 
which her husband's wealth and position entitled 
her. 

Rumors of her exceeding beauty had reached the 
metropolis, in spite of her seclusion at Sainte Roche, 
and it was whispered that Juliani, the famous tenor 
of the Italians, had declared her voice to be phe- 
nomenal. All this was sufficient to cause consider- 
able curiosity to see her, and there were very few 
regrets to the invitations for the ball. 

In one of the antechambers leading from the 
grand salon were gathered together two or three of 
the jeunesse doree of the gay capital, irreproachably 
attired from the tips of their patent-leather shoes to 
the crown of their carefully brushed heads. One, 
a young fellow of not more than two-and-twenty, 
but with the Uase look, real or affected, of a man of 
fifty who had completely exhausted life, reclined 
with half -closed eyes in a low arm-chair, while his 
companions applauded with cries of “Brava! 
Brava!” a duo, which had just been sung in the 
next room, by the mistress of the house and her 
teacher. Signor Juliani. 

“That was really admirable,” said one, as the ap* 
plause died away. “Very good, quite remarkable. 
The little woman has much talent, has she not, 
Tirandel?” 

The one addressed as Tirandel opened his eyes, 
stared for a moment at the speaker, and then, as if 


44 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


the effort to speak was really too much for him, 
made a feeble motion of the head in token of 
assent. 

“Tirandel!” indignantly ejaculated his friend, 
whose name was Laubanere, and who was a suc- 
cessful young broker on the Bourse. “ How can you 
be so apathetic when such music is going on? Have 
you no soul?” 

“Soul?”, drawled Tirandel, without moving a 
muscle or in the slightest degree altering his com- 
fortable position. “Don’t know. Have a body.” 

Laubanere laughed. 

“Well, at all events, your body is in a very bad 
attitude for a ball, you know.” 

“Tired!” And the tone of his voice was in ac- 
cordance with his words. 

“But, tell me,” said Laubanere, approaching and 
leaning over the back of his chair, “how happens 
it that you once more shed the light of your counte- 
nance upon society?” 

“Must go somewhere.” 

“You have the club.” 

“Bores me. Stopped smoking.” 

“ Poor fellow ! But I say, Tirandel !” 

Tirandel moved slightly, and then said with as 
much impatience as his laziness, real or assumed, 
would allow him to exhibit : 

“ Don’t yell ! Nerves.” 

“But, my dear fellow, 3^ou don’t know what you 


A ROMANCE. 


45 


are missing. The rooms are full of pretty women, I 
assure you.” 

“All the same to me.” 

“Hear him, Vaumartin,” laughed Laubanere, 
turning to a third young man, who had approached 
to listen to the colloquy. “ Did you ever see such a 
fellow?” 

Vaumartin was evidently not a man to have much 
sympathy with TirandeTs lackadaisical airs, if airs 
they were. He was one of these men, by no means 
infrequent in society, who have sprung from no one 
knows where and who by push and wire-pulling 
have managed to obtain a foothold and keep it. 

“What is the matter with you, Tirandel?” he 
asked, in a voice as rasping as a saw. 

Blase \ Worn out !” murmured Tirandel, softly. 

“The devil! Don’t you do anything for it?” 

“Trying water cure.” 

“Has it done you any good?” 

Tirandel shrugged his shoulders, or rather made 
a weak movement which was meant to be a shrug. 

“Hot much, evidently,” said Vaumartin. 

“Think I’m a little better.” 

Both his companions roared. 

“Great heaven!” exclaimed Laubanere. “What 
must you have been before you tried it !” 

“How are you, Laubanere?” said a voice from 
the door-way. “Good-evening, Monsieur Vau- 
martin.” 


46 


A FABISIAA" JiOMABm. 


Laubanere started, and turning, bowed obse- 
quiously. 

“Good-evening, baron,” he replied, in response to 
the salutation of the new-comer. 

We have already caught a glimpse of Baron 
Chevrial at the church door in Sainte Roche, but 
in the last two years, he has altered somewhat and 
not for the better. His face is thinner, and the 
cheeks, in spite of their rather too brilliant color- 
ing, look sunken. The little eyes, beneath the care- 
fully penciled brows, are dull and fishy, and below 
them are puffed ridges which no art can conceal. 
His hair, however, is quite as thick and black as 
ever. It has long been a matter of hot discussion 
in club and boudoir whether the baron’s chevelure 
is due to nature or a very skillful wig-maker, but 
the question has never yet been satisfactorily 
solved. 

The baron advanced into the room, dangling in 
one hand a monocle, attached by a thin gold chain 
to the lapel of his vest, and stroking with the other 
his slender mustache which was waxed into two stiff 
points and turned straight up from the corners of 
his mouth — a mouth, by the way, which would not 
have met with favor from physiognomists, the upper 
lip being thin and bloodless, and the lower heavy, 
protruding, and of a deep purplish hue. 

Every detail of his dress was perfection. The cut 
of his evening coat, with its single gardenia in the 
button-hole, was a model, and the set of the white 


A PAHISIAJi POMANCK 


47 


expanse of his shirt-front, Beau Brummel or the 
Count d’ Orsay, had those worthies lived in these 
days, would have envied. 

“How are you, dear boy?” said the baron, ad- 
dressing young Tirandel, with a familiar pat on 
the shoulder, as if the young man had been one of 
his own contemporaries. 

“You are late, baron,” observed Laubanere, defer- 
entially. 

Baron Chevrial was one of the kings of the 
Bourse, and it behooved the young broker to court 
his favor. 

“Yes, yes. I was detained at the opera; behind 
the scenes, di&n entendu^^’’ with a sly wink and an 
unctious chuckle. “ But what has been going on 
here? Whom were they applauding, as I came up 
the stairs?” 

“The mistress of the house, Madame de Targy,” 
replied Laubanere, “who has been singing with 
Juliani.” 

“With Juliani, the tenor?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ah!” was the baron’s answer, but there was a 
world of disagreeable innuendo in the long drawn 
out monosyllable. 

Laubanere and Vaumartin laughed as in duty 
bound. The old relations of patron and client still 
exist in these modern days, though perhaps less 
openly than in antiquity. 

As for Tirandel, for the first time during the 


48 


A FAJiJSIA^^ JiOMANCK 


evening, he showed some signs of intelligence. An 
expression of disgust at the baron’s implication 
swept over his handsome face, and he said in a 
way which showed that beneath all his laziness and 
indifference, there lurked the instincts of a gentle- 
man. 

“Madame de Targy bears a spotless reputation. 
Juliani has been giving her lessons.” 

“Oh!” retorted Chevrial, with a half -sneer. “Be- 
hold our friend, Tirandel, in a new character, that of 
knight-errant. Well, all I can say is, that I envy 
Monsieur Juliani.” 

“I must tell you, my dear baron,” interrupted 
Laubanere, quickly, “that Madame Chevrial ac- 
companied them charmingly.” 

“My wife?” remarked Chevrial, indifferently. 
“That does not astonish me; she is a very fine 
pianist, my wife. She possesses all accomplish- 
ments. But, tell me,” with more animation, “has 
Madame de Targy any talent? I have never heard 
her.” 

“Yes, much talent.” 

“ Of the first order, my dear baron, of the first 
order!” declared Vaumartin. “A superb voice! 
That young woman has a hundred thousand francs 
in her throat.” 

This opinion was announced in the tone of a priest 
of Apollo, delivering an oracle, which there is no 
gainsaying. Monsieur Vaumartin believed that if 
you only speak loudly and authoritatively enough, 


A PABlSIAlf^ ROMAliiCE. 


4d 

the majority of people will listen to you and accept 
as truth what you say, and he carried this belief 
into all the actions of his life. 

But he found now, as he had on more than one 
previous occasion, the baron an exception to the 
majority. 

“A hundred thousand francs in the throat— bah 
was ChevriaFs comprehensive comment. 

“ I assure you, baron, that she sings very well,” 
replied Vaumartin. “She is a great artist.” 

The baron smiled in pitying disdain. 

“Yes, in a drawing-room,” he said, sweetly. “I 
have no doubt of it. It is like society amateurs 
playing a comedy ; in private, it is charming, but, 
on the stage of a theater, it would be something 
quite different.” 

“Yes, indeed, baron, that is true,” remarked 
Laubanere, who was always only too ready to 
agree with the man of success. 

But Vaumartin was too self-opinionated to re- 
linquish the point, and besides he rarely had deal- 
ings on the Bourse. 

“I beg to differ with you, gentlemen,” he per- 
sisted; “you can believe me or not, as you like, 
but, no later than night before last I heard, in a 
parlor, some society people play one of De Musset’s 
pieces, and I assure you that those ladies and 
gentlemen, simple amateurs as they were, would not 
have been out of place ” 

“At the Theater-Francais, I suppose, dear boy,” 


50 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


interrupted the baron. ‘'Is that what you were 
going to say?” 

Vauniartin hesitated a moment. 

“Well, yes,” he said, boldly, determined not to 
abate an inch of his position; “certainly, at the 
Theater-Francai s. ” 

Even Tirandel laughed at this. 

“ Well,” said the baron, ‘‘whether she has a voice 
for the stage or a voice for the parlor, the little 
woman is devilish pretty. She has a figure which 
would tempt an anchorite.” 

And, adjusting his monocle, with a hand which a 
close observer would have perceived was just the 
least little bit tremulous, the baron cast upon the 
lady under discussion, who was standing just be- 
yond the arched door- way, such a look as a Satyr 
might have bent upon a nymph he had discovered 
bathing in some woodland stream. 

“Keally, it is incredible,” he murmured, “how 
she appeals to my imagination.” 

At this moment, the young mistress of the house 
turned, and, accompanied by half a dozen of her 
guests, among whom were her aunt, Madame Char- 
teris, and our old friend. Doctor Chesnel, entered 
the room. 

Very lovely was Marcelle in a Worth gown of 
silver tissue and a white satin train embroidered 
with golden lilies. Upon her arm and neck, as 
polished as marble, gleamed diamonds and sap- 
phires, and above the rippling masses of her bronze- 


A FABISIAJ^ UOMANCE, 


51 


hued hair was poised an exquisite, jeweled butterfly. 

The excitement had flushed her delicately 
molded cheeks and lent an additional brightness 
to her dark brown eyes. 

After acknowledging the salutes of the four gen- 
tlemen, whose conversation we have been listening 
to, she turned to her aunt, and said, smilingly, 
evidently in reply to some remark just made : 

“Then you really think, that I have made pro- 
gress?” 

“Prodigious, my dear, prodigious,” replied Madame 
Charteris, whose more than plump figure was 
tightly compressed in a gorgeous costume of scarlet 
and black, and whose good-humored face beamed 
with pleasure at the success of her niece. “Your 
voice is now simply perfection.” 

“You really made me shed tears,” observed 
Madame de Luce, a pretty young woman, whose 
elderly husband had considerately died a few years 
before and left her in possession of an ample in- 
come. 

“You have the golden voice of Patti,” said Yau- 
martin, in his loud voice. 

“With a suggestion of Nilsson, besides,” added 
the baron, bowing low with his most fascinating 
air. 

Marcelle smiled and blushed with gratified vanity. 

“Oh! gentlemen,” she said, “you are really too 
good.” 

Baron Chevrial raised his little eyes to her fresh. 


52 


A FAHISIAJ^ FOMA^^CK 


flower-like face with a look of undisguised admira- 
tion, which had in it something indescribably 
repulsive. 

With an involuntary movement, Doctor Chesnel, 
who caught the look, stepped between them, hiding 
Marcelle from the roue’s baneful gaze and said, 

' almost affectionately : 

“My dear little lady, you have given your old 
friend great pleasure, and made him very proud of 
you.” 

“My dear doctor,” said Marcelle, smiling inno- 
cently up at him, “I saw your good, kind face 
before me and that gave me confldence. Ii is the 
first time, you know, that I have sung in public. 
But,” she continued, turning to a tall, handsome 
Italian, who had entered the room with her and 
still stood by her side, “you. Signor Juliani, to 
whom I owe all, say nothing.” 

“Ah, madam,” replied the Italian, in a rich, 
melodious voice, “ I am under the spell, like every 
one else.” 

“But,” proceeded Marcelle, “it is really to you 
that all these delightful compliments should be ad- 
dressed, to you, who have done me the extreme 
honor to give me lessons.” 

“Oh! the honor,” answered Signor Juliani, with 
a laugh, and a graceful, deprecating wave of the 
hand. 

“Is it really true. Signor Juliani,” asked Vau- 


A FABISIA:^ BOJfAJVCK 


53 


martin, “that you intend to leave Paris, as they 
say?” 

“Oh! no!” exclaimed Madame Charteris and 
Madame de Luce in concert. “ Oh ! no ! no ! Signor 
Juliani!” 

“I regret to say, ladies,” replied the tenor, “that 
such is my ultimate intention.” 

“But that is too bad, quite too bad!” pouted 
Madame de Luce. 

“It is frightful, frightful!” said Madame Char- 
teris. “You are a horrid man! Monsieur Vau- 
martin!” Then, as that gentleman did not seem to 
hear her, “Monsieur Vaumartin!” she repeated, 
“will you give me your arm to the supper-room?” 

Not overdelighted, Vaumartin started to obey her 
request, and, as he passed the baron, he whispered 
in disgust : 

“ That is the fifteenth woman I have taken into 
supper this evening.” 

“You are so amiable and so handsome,” mur- 
mured the baron, hypocritically. 

At this moment, the strains of a waltz floated in 
from the salon, and Marcelle said to Tirandel, who 
had been standing a little apart from the rest, 
gloomy and silent . 

“Don’t you dance, Monsieur Tirandel?” 

The youth of two-and-twenty, who was convinced 
that he had exhausted all the world had to offer, 
replied sadly : 

“No, madam.” 


51 


A FABmA^r BOMAB^CB, 


“And you, Monsieur Chevrial. Oh! by the way,” 
with a charming smile, “I must thank you for 
having come this evening, you, who go so little into 
society. It is a miracle to see you, and a miracle 
for which I am deeply grateful.” 

The baron approached close to her side with that 
peculiarly insinuating manner, which it was his 
habit to assume toward women and which he be- 
lieved to be irresistible. 

“You do not know, madam,” he said, in low, 
smooth tones, “ what an irresistible attraction you 
exercise over my weak heart.” 

Marcelle stared, and instinctively drawing a little 
away from him, replied constrainedly : 

“Indeed! Well, in return, I adore your wife. 
She came to see me several times, you know, when 
we were at Sainte Roche, and I am sure, now that 
I have come to Paris, we shall be great friends. 
You have no idea how well she played my accom- 
paniment to-night.” 

“Would that I could play your accompaniment!” 
exclaimed the baron, with a leering smile, which 
was intended to be fascinating. 

“But you can’t, you know,” returned Marcelle, 
laughing, and gathering up her train, with its 
golden embroideries, to return to the salon. 

“May I not even be your partner in a waltz?” 
asked the baron, pleadingly. 

Marcelle would gladly have refused. She did not 
like the man; there was something about him that 


A FABJ6IA2i/^ BOMAB’CK 


55 


shocked and repelled her. But still it would not do 
to be rude to him in her own house, so she was 
forced to accept his proffered arm, inwardly re- 
solving, however, to cut the waltz as short as pos- 
sible. 


56 


A FABJSIAJ^ BOMAJ^OK 


CHAPTER IV. 

BARON CHEVRIAL’S OPINIONS. 

It was no great pleasure for Henri de Targy to 
come to Paris and plunge into the giddy whirl of 
society. He had been thoroughly happy in the 
country with his adored Marcelle, but he did not 
consider it right to immure her in the house at 
Sainte Roche, and so had determined to give her a 
season in Paris. 

As he stood half hidden behind the curtains of 
a deep bay-window, and looked out at the gayly 
decorated rooms, the flashing lights and the medley 
of magniflcent toilets, he could not help a feeling of 
regret for his quiet home in the country with Mar- 
celle sitting opposite him at the fireside. Neverthe- 
less, his heart swelled with pride as he saw her 
coming toward him, by all odds the most beautiful 
woman in that assemblage of beautiful women. 

As she caught sight of him standing alone in the 
shadowy window, she dropped the arm of the doctor 
with whom she was walking, and saying, “ There is 
Henri, moping all by himself. I must speak to 
him,” slipped in beside him. 

« Why are you here all alone?” she asked, laying 
her hand on his arm, caressingly. “Aren’t you 
enjoying it?” 


A fabisia:^- bomance. 


57 


‘‘I enjoy your pleasure,” was the tender reply. 

“Oh! you bad boy, but I want you to enjoy it 
yourself.” 

“Are you sure you are not getting too tired?” 

“No. Oh! Henri, I never was so happy in my 
life!” And she impulsively threw both arms about 
his neck and kissed him. 

“My dear!” he exclaimed, glancing quickly out 
into the salon, with a man’s nervous dread of being 
ridiculous. “How could you?” 

The bright face clouded over in an instant and 
the pretty lip trembled. As Henri saw this, a pang 
smote him to think that any thoughtless word of 
his should cause her pain, and drawing her farther 
within the curtained window, he put his arm about 
her, saying soothingly : 

“Forgive me, dear! Kiss me, wherever you like, 
in the ball-room, in the street, in the theater, in 
church ” 

She looked up at him, a delicious smile upon her 
lips. 

“I did, once,” she said, demurely. 

“You did, my darling!” he murmured, passion- 
ately, straining her closer to him. “ May I never 
forget it!” 

For a moment she remained nestled close to the 
heart of her lover husband, and then, gently dis- 
engaging herself from his embrace, she said, laugh- 
ingly: 


58 


A PAUmiAN ROMANCE. 


“ How absurd of us ! Come back with me at once 
to our guests.” 

De Targy was not the only one to whom the ball 
was not a source of unmitigated delight. Baron 
Chevrial, though for vastly different reasons, was 
bored and disgusted. His waltz with Marcelle had 
not been so pleasant as he had imagined it would 
be. The fair mistress of the house either did not or 
would not understand the honeyed speeches he 
poured into her ear, and, as he had come to the ball 
for the express purpose of winning her good graces, 
he felt himself a highly abused man and was in- 
clined to rail at fate. 

After the dinner, he returned to the anteroom, 
where he found Yaumartin, who had managed to 
escape from the clutches of hungry Madame Char- 
teris, and Tirandel, who had resumed his lazy atti- 
tude in the most comfortable arm-chair. 

“What!” exclaimed Yaumartin. “Is your waltz 
already over?” 

The baron was somewhat out of temper, and 
thoroughly out of breath. 

“Yes,” he said, breathing heavily. “I only made 
two turns of the room. The weather is so damp to- 
day, that I have no strength in my legs. Confound 
that little woman ! It is astonishing how she ap- 
peals to my imagination.” 

Yaumartin smiled. 

“All women appeal to your imagination, Chev- 
rial.” 


A FABISIAJ^ FOMANCK 


59 


The baron’s little eyes half closed, with a sly look, 
as he nodded assent. 

“More or less, more or less, my boy, but this one 
positively drives me wild.” 

“And Rosa Guerin?” murmured Tirandel, lazily. 

“Oh! Rosa Guerin is quite another sort.” 

“ And the— the— what you may call it— of the— 
the circus?” 

“You are losing your memory, Tirandel,” retorted 
Chevrial. “ The— what you may call it of the circus 
is another sort still. All species of women have 
their charm. By the way,” he added, with a faint 
click of the tongue, and a sort of smacking of the 
lips, “ did you notice the little maid-servant in the 
dressing-room, the one that took charge of the 
wraps?” 

“Oh!” said Tirandel, with a slight, a very slight 
upraising of the eyebrows, “the maid-servant now !” 

“Exactly!” laughed Vaumartin. 

“Very pretty, very pretty, upon my word,” pur- 
sued Chevrial, taking no notice of his companions’ 
remarks. “A figure by Watteau! But to return to 
her mistress ; she is really a superb bit of female 
fiesh, highly superior, a mixture of delicacy and 
strength, health without coarseness. She will 
probably become intimate with my wife. I am 
delighted at the idea — yes, delighted,” he added, 
with a nod of the head and a slov^^ smile. 

Vaumartin grinned, and Tirandel really deigned 
to open his eves wide. 


60 


A FABISIA]^ 


“Look here, baron,” he said, with as near an ap- 
proach to spirit, as he ever permitted himself to 
indulge in. “’Ware, hawk! No chance there.” 

The baron surveyed him sneeringly from head to 
foot. 

“Why no chance?” he asked, contemptuously. 

“Because,” replied Tirandel, resuming his languid 
drawl, “this is an ideal match. They adore each 
other. They embrace in every corner.” 

The baron’s features relaxed in a smile of con- 
scious power. 

“My dear fellow,” he said, pityingly, “you don’t 
know what you are talking about. There is one 
established rule which never fails.” 

“Eeally?” 

“ Eeally. In matters of love, with time and money, 
nothing is impossible. Look at J upiter in ancient 
times, and scores of modern instances.” 

“But,” said Vaumartin, “your rule would proba- 
bly fail here. These De Targys are very rich. They 
have at least a hundred thousand francs a year.” 

The baron snapped his fingers. 

“Well, a hundred thousand francs a year! Whatj 
of it? In Paris, a fashionable young woman can 
easily spend half of that in dress. Besides, have 
they as much as that? I have heard it said that 
De Targy’s father lost considerable money before 
he died.” 

“Ah!” 

“And certainly the son’s marriage did not better 


A FAlimAN BOMANCF. 


61 


things; his wife had nothing. She had been com^ 
fortably enough brought up by her aunt, but she 
had no fortune of her own, an insignificant dowry. 
It was a love match, the least likely to last of all ! 
And, then,” lowering his voice, “there are mysteries 
in the house, you know.” 

Vaumartin looked surprised. 

“No,” he answered, “I did not know. You forget 
that I have been in Saint Petersburg for the last 
three years. Come, tell me all about it,” he added, 
throwing himself into a chair beside Tirandel, 
whose eyes were closed, and who was evidently 
already in a doze. 

“Well, here goes, then,” said the baron, following 
his friend’s example. “About two years ago, not 
long before his son’s marriage— by the way, it 
happened on that most auspicious occasion, my own 
wedding-day — the elder De Targy died suddenly, 
and there were, in connection with his death, cer- 
tain singular circumstances ; there were even 
rumors of suicide. What is positive, however, is, 
that since that time Madame de Targy, the dowager 
I mean, has fallen into a very strange condition.” 

“A little crazy, isn’t she?” 

“No, not exactly crazy, but extraordinary, odd, 
peculiar. She used to be quite a pleasant sort of 
woman. I have seen her when she was very agree- 
able, very agreeable indeed. But she suddenly 
aged enormously, and she never shows herself 
now. She does not even go out, I believe. She 


62 


A PABISIAN BOMAB'^CK 


passes all her days, and even all .her nights, they 
say, in pacing like a specter up and down her 
apartments, above here, and — in short, there is a 
mystery, a something ” 

“Skeleton!” muttered Tirandel. 

Chevrial started nervously. 

“What do you say?” he asked, querulously. “I 
thought you were asleep.” 

“Was!” was the yawning reply. “Heard you say 
mystery! Suggested skeleton.” 

“ Well, don’t be so abrupt in your suggestions. It 
is the weather, I suppose. I am shaky to-night. 
You happen to be right, however. There is a 
skeleton in some closet here, and one that should, 
perhaps, be ferreted out.” 

“It is very likely all mere idle gossip,” said Vau- 
martin, rising. “ At all events, these young people 
certainly know how to entertain; their hall has 
been a success.” 

“ It is the first time they have received since the 
death of the father,” rejoined Chevrial, “and they 
have naturally made all the display possible.” 

“The devil!” exclaimed Yaumartin, as he raised 
the portiere, which had been drawn across the arch 
leading into the salon. “ The rooms are nearly de- 
serted. Almost every one has gone.” 

“So late! Let us go, too, then. Come, Tirandel,” 
giving him a shake. “You can’t sleep there all 
night.” 


A FABTSIAy BOJfANCK 


63 


Tirandel opened his eyes, yawned, and rose slowly 
to his feet. 

“Confound it !” he drawled. “One can’t be com- 
fortable anywhere!” 

And he sauntered after the others, who had 
already disappeared. 

Vaumartin had spoken the turth. There was no 
one in the room save the host and hostess, Madame 
Charteris, and a very beautiful woman with golden 
hair and deep blue eyes, the Baroness Chevrial. 
“My wife!” muttered the baron to himself, as he 
caught sight of her. “ Humph ! I had forgotten all 
about her.” 

“My dear Marcelle,” Aunt Reine was saying 
gushingly, “everything has been delightful— ah I 
Monsieur Vaumartin, you are always on hand when 
I want you. You can take me to my carriage.” 

“Charmed, I’m sure,” but his looks belied his 
words. 

However, he submitted to the inevitable, and the 
good woman sailed off on his arm, followed slowly 
by Tirandel, who had murmured some unintelligible 
farewell to his hostess, which might have been 
expressive of his enjoyment of the ball or the 
reverse. 

“Your wife has been so kind, baron,” said Mar- 
celle, brightly. “She promised me to remain till 
the end of my first ball, and, you see, she has kept 
her word.” 

The baroness smiled sweetly, as she took the hand 


64 


A PAliltilAN ROMANCE. 


of the pretty young matron, flushed with her first 
social triumphs. 

‘‘I have staid,” she said, “because I always like 
to be in your house. It is such a pleasure to witness 
the happiness of you and your good husband,” with 
a little nod to Henri, who stood close beside his 
wife. 

At these words, the baron’s eyes contracted. 
“That is meant for me,” he thought, but in this he 
did the baroness an injustice, for her remarks had 
been without any arriere-pensive whatever. 

“Pardon me, is not this monsieur's?” 

Chevrial turned, and saw standing just behind 
him, carrying an overcoat and a hat, the pretty 
maid he had noticed in the dressing-room. 

The baron’s expression changed. 

“Exactly,” he said, with a bold stare of admira- 
tion. “A little help, please.” 

As the girl finished helping him into his overcoat, 
he slipped a piece of silver into her hand, and 
whispered, with his back turned to the others : 

“You have the hands of a duchess, my dear.” 

The girl drew back, offended, and half alarmed, 
and the baron calmly advanced to take farewell, of 
Marcelle. 

“Once more, baron, thank you for coming.” 

“Ah! madam, I love the world, I love lights, 
music, handsome toilets, and beautiful women. I 
have had a most delightful evening, and it is for me 
to thank you,” and he bowed low over her hand. 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 




“Good-night, dear madam,” said his wife. 

“We shall be friends, shall we not?” exclaimed, 
Marcelle, impulsively. 

“We are so, already,” was the earnest response. 

“ Maria,” said Marcelle, a few moments later. 

“ Madam ?” 

“You can tell the servants they can retire. It is 
too late to put things to rights to-night.” 

“Very well, madam.” 

“And I shall not want you again to-night; you 
must be fatigued.” 

“Oh! no, madam. I was so interested in look- 
ing at the dresses.” 

Maria had been Madame de Targy’s maid since 
her marriage; she was a good girl, and Marcelle 
allowed her a certain familiarity. 

“There were some pretty dresses, were there not?” 

“Oh! yes, madam. Madame de ChevriaTs was 
beautiful.” 

“Yes, she looked very handsome.” 

“Yes, madam, and she is a very kind lady; it is 
a shame that she should have such a queer man for 
her husband.” 

“What?” 

“Ah! madam, he always says such horrid things 
to you and puts his face so close to you. I never 
saw such a monkey.” 

Henri, who had thrown himself down upon a 
divan, laughed aloud, and even Marcelle could not 
restrain a smile, although she said severely enough; 


66 


A PAniSIAN JlOMA^TR 


“That will do, Maria. Good-night.” 

When the girl had left the room, she came over 
to her husband, and bending down to kiss his fore- 
head, said, tenderly : 

“ Good-morning. ” 

“ My darling ! and he drew her down beside him, 
the love light as strong in his eyes as it had been in 
the little garden of the Lion d’ Or. 

“Did you love me this evening?’* she asked, 
coquettishly. 

“I always love you.” 

“But this evening in particular?” 

He smiled affectionately. 

“Ah! you want compliments! Well, this evening 
in particular, I not only loved you, I was proud of 
you.” 

“Go on,” she said, nestling close to him, regard- 
less of the crumpling of her superb embroidered 
draperies. 

“Yes, I was proud of you. You were in your 
element, in the midst of all this social elegance 
which jon love and which suits you, charming your 
guests and charmed yourself, dancing like a fairy, 
singing like a bird, happy and triumphant as a 
young queen. I was proud of you and I adored 
you.” 

“ It is very sweet to hear you say this,” she mur- 
mured. 

“You really sang superbly to-night.” 




67 


“Do you know what Signor Juliani said to me to- 
night?” 

“ What?” 

“He said it was a shame I did not sing in opera.” 

“ Indeed!” 

“ And that an engagement was open to me when- 
ever I wanted it. Oh!” she continued, with spark- 
ling eyes, “ how I would like that— that is, if you 
were willing. Would you give your consent?” 

“No!” replied Henri, laughingly, but firmly. 

Marcelle laughed, too. 

“I expected that reply,” she said. 

“No, no, my dear, your proper surroundings are 
such scenes as to-night. Do you know, luxury, 
dress, laces, diamonds, become you so well, that 
really, my darling, I cannot imagine you poor.” 

“ Nor can I ! And yet I should be poor, if it were 
not for you.” 

“Not at all. If you had not met me, you would 
have continued to live with your aunt.” 

“ Aunt Heine was certainly very good to me ; she 
spoiled me, in fact. But once out of her house, once 
married, I must have been poor. Where could I 
have found another man as good and generous as 
you, with an unselfish heart like yours, to ch ose 
me in spite of my small fortune? For I had noth- 
ing, had I? Almost nothing?” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said, quickly. “You 
had a very — a very respectable dowry.” 

Marcelle was silent for a moment, and then she 


68 


A FAHISIAJ^ FOMAF-CK 


said, thoughtfully, playing with the magnificent 
jewels upon her white fingers: 

“Would you believe it? I never knew exactly 
how much my dowry was. I was such a child. My 
education had been so unpractical that I knew ab- 
solutely nothing of business matters. I thought it 
quite natural that you should take me for my pretty 
face, with a flower for my only ornament. Teil me, 
how much was my dowry?” 

Henri hesitated. 

“I do not remember,” he said, “exactly.” 

“No,” she insisted, with a pretty motie, “tell me — 
please!” 

“Well— eighty thousand francs.” 

“ Income?” 

“ Oh ! no !” he laughed. 

Marcelle’s face grew grave. 

“Poor fellow!” she said, tenderly. “But,” im- 
ploringly, “you are happy?” 

He drew her close into his arms. 

“So happy, my darling, so happy, that the very 
excess of my happiness almost frightens me.” 

“Ah! how I love you!” she murmured. 


A PABISIAJV ROMANCK 


69 


CHAPTER V. 

SKELETONS. 

From the night of her ball young Madame de 
Targy was a pronounced success. Her toilets, her 
beauty, her voice were the theme of every tongue, 
and Marcelle’s cup of joy was brimming over. She 
reveled in luxury and all the power that money 
and position give; not that she was frivolous or 
heartless, far from it ; she loved her husband with 
her whole heart, and his will was her law; she 
loved him, and she was grateful to him for all the 
beauty and sunshine he had poured into her life. 
Perhaps she was a little intoxicated by all the 
adulation she received, but she had a stanch friend 
and wise adviser in Madame Chevrial, to guide 
her steps amid the shoals and pitfalls that lie 
beneath the brilliant, fascinating exterior of 
Parisian society. 

Armande Chevrial was a woman of far more than 
ordinary strength of character. Her marriage had 
been one purely of convenience, arranged by her 
relatives and in which she had been but little con- 
sulted. In a worldly point of view, it was certainly 
a great match for a penniless girl, and as is too 
pften the case in such pircupistances, uncle and 


70 


A FABISIAJ^ ROMAB'CK 


aunt had refused to look beneath the dazzling 
glitter of the baron’s gold. Knowing but little of 
life, as is the rule with most French girls, she had 
acquiesced in the decision of her family, and ac- 
cepted Chevrial’s hand. Her awakening came only 
too soon. The baron’s resolve at reformation, made, 
it must be confessed for purely selfish reasons, was 
short-lived, and Armande had not been married six 
months before she knew that her husband was a 
selfish, unprincipled roue, entirely abandoned to 
the gratification of his own passions, and utterly 
regardless of the feelings of others so long as his 
own ends were gained. There was one terrible 
scene between them, of bitter upbraiding and hope- 
less pleading on her part, and sneering sarcasm and 
cynical bravado on his, but it was the last. From 
that time she went her way and he his. Whatever 
she may have suffered in silence, the world never 
knew it. H>er manner to him was perfect ; she in- 
dulged in no further reproaches and she respected 
his wishes. Oh his part, he was well satisfied with 
an arrangement Which permitted him to follow his 
own sweet will without restraint or annoyance. 
The passing fancy, which Armande’s beauty had 
inspired in him, had long ago dwindled to nothing. 
So long as she did honor to his name and wealth, 
dressed magnificently and entertained perfectly, 
that was all he demanded of her. He knew that 
she despised him, but that, in general, was a matter 
of supreme indifference to him, 


A PAJilSIAjV POMANCK 


71 


It was Dot strange, therefore, that Armande, in 
her loveliness, should have been strongly attracted 
to Marcelle de Targy. Henri had been her friend 
from childhood, and, moreover, Marcelle’s clinging, 
sensitive nature appealed powerfully to her own 
more self-reliant one. Her happiest moments were 
those spent in the peace and sunshine of the De 
Targy household. 

Sunshine? Yes, but — and unfortunately there is 
always a but— there was one cloud upon the other- 
wise clear horizon. 

Since the sudden death of her husband, the 
dowager Madame de Targy, as we have already 
heard Chevrial relate, had become a changed 
woman. Formerly devoted in her piety and strict 
in the observance of her religion, she now never 
entered a church. Her melancholy increased more 
and more, reaching at times what seemed absolute 
despair. Although she wished and indeed insisted 
that Henri and Marcelle should join in all the 
pleasures that the world could give them, she reso- 
lutely eschewed all society herself and saw no one 
outside of her own family, save Doctor Chesnel and 
occasionally Madame Chevrial. 

When Henri had asked her permission to marry 
Mademoiselle Rigaud, she had at once given her 
consent and had even urged that the marriage take 
place at once. She seemed fond of Marcelle, but 
her usual condition was one of apathetic indiffer- 


ence. 


72 


A PAIiISIA^'^ BOMAI^CK 


If Henri had not been so madly in love with his 
wife, a love which was so ^reat that it completely 
absorbed him, his mother’s condition would have 
been a terrible thing to him, and, as it was, it could 
not fail to worry him at times. 

Doctor Chesnel, with whom he had many a long 
talk on the subject, declared that his science was 
powerless against a mental affection. Madame de 
Targy’s physical health was perfect, but she seemed 
to be besieged by some one fixed idea which 
poisoned her whole existence. Henri, at the doc- 
tor’s instigation, had once attempted to obtain her 
confidence, but with no effect save to throw his 
mother into a state of terrible nervous agitation 
which lasted for several days. 

It was altogether inexplicable; and it was the 
one little drop of gall in the young couple’s over- 
flowing beaker of happiness. 


A pahisian romangr 


73 


CHAPTER VI. 

BEFORE AND BEHIND THE SCENES. 

The curtain had just fallen upon the second act of 
“La Juire.” The magnificent auditorium of the 
opera house was crowded with all that was con- 
spicuous in fashion or art, and the sweep of the 
horse-shoe was like a parterre of beautiful faces, 
superb toilets, and blazing jewels. 

It was the first appearance in Paris of the great 
tenor, Juliani, as Eleazar, in a gorgeous revival of 
Halevy’s opera, and a representative audience had 
gathered together to do him honor. 

When, in addition to Juliani in a new role, it was 
announced that Krauss would sing Rachel, and that 
Mademoiselle Rosa Guerin, the favorite danseuse 
with the grace of a Taglioni and the figure of a 
Cerito, would dance, it was not strange that all 
Paris should desire to be present the first night, and 
that single orchestra seats should have brought an 
enormous premium. 

Among all the beautiful women gathered togeth r 
that night, there were probably none more beauti- 
ful than the two who sat in the Baron Chevrial’s 
box, the financier’s wife and young Madame de 
Targy. Lorgnettes from all parts of the house were 


74 


A PARISIAN ROMANCR 


leveled at the contrasting types, the one severe and 
classical in the purity of its outlines, and the other 
bright and riante in its brilliancy of coloring. 

Henri de Targy, as he stood in the back of the 
box and watched his wife’s smiling face as she 
chatted gayly with the young elegantes who had 
crowded in during the entr' acte, rejoiced in her en- 
joyment; but if troubles destroy happiness, it is 
equally true that pleasures disturb it, and he 
could not restrain a slight feeling of regret for the 
old, quiet days at Sainte Koche, when every mo- 
ment of Marcello’s time had belonged to him and to 
him alone. With her it was far different. She 
adored Paris, and everything in its glitter and 
splendor was novel and delightful to her. She was 
like a young bird just trying its wings and con- 
scious of its power, and she had not yet learned the 
truth of that saying of Christine of Sweden, “ The 
one who seeks too eagerly for amusement ends by 
obtaining naught but ennui, 

“Juliani is surpassing himself to-night,” said 
Vaumartin, who with Tirandel, looking as sleepy 
and handsome as ever, had entered the box. 

‘‘Yes,” said Madame Chevrial, “his voice is par- 
ticularly well suited to the music. I have never 
seen him when he was so fine.” 

“He has given up his projected tour, I under- 
stand.” 

“Ask Madame de Targy,” said the baron, who 
from a point of vantage behind Marcello’s chair 


A FABI6YAJV FOMAJVCK 


75 


had been ogling the house. “She is an intimate 
friend of his.” 

‘‘Hardly that,” said Marcelle, blushing slightly, 
“but I am very proud to be a pupil of his. JSTo, he 
has not abandoned his tour to South America, but 
he has postponed it, I believe, for six months.” 

“Does he go alone?” 

“Ho, he will take with him an opera troupe, and 
be his own impresario. He finds great advantage in 
that, he says.” 

“It is a pity his most promising pupil cannot be 
the leader of that troupe,” said Yaumartin, with a 
flattering bow. 

“Ah! I am not my own mistress, and my hus- 
band would not hear of it,” and she lifted her eyes 
to De Targy with a smile full of affection. She had 
not yet learned to disguise her feelings, and it was 
patent to even the most careless observer that Mar- 
celle de Targy was that anomaly in Parisian 
society, a wife in love with her husband. 

Baron Chevrial bent over her chair, until his 
mustache almost touched her fair, white neck. 

“How I envy Monsieur de Targy,” he said, in 
low, silky tones. “ What would I not give for a 
smile like that!” 

Marcelle made no reply, but she shivered slightly, 
and she drew her opera cloak over her shoulders. 

Armande Chevrial caught the half-whispered 
words, and a look of contempt swept across her 
face, She knew her husband only too well, and she 


76 


A PARISIAN ROMANCK 


registered a vow that, if she could help it, the 
purity of Marcello’s mind should not be sullied by 
attentions and speeches which were little less than 
an insult. Marcello herself had led too retired a 
life to have any just appreciation of a man of the 
baron's type, but, without knowing exactly why, he 
never addressed her that she did not feel repelled. 
She would have avoided him on every possible occa- 
sion, had it not been for the sincere affection she 
felt for his wife. 

The appearance of the musicians was the signal 
that the curtain was about to rise, and the young 
men who had been visiting their friends in the 
boxes gradually drifted back to their seats on the 
floor of the house. 

The third act is devoted to the fetes in honor of 
the emperor, and almost entirely taken up with the 
gorgeous ballet of “The Enchanted Tower.” After 
some preliminary and rather uninteresting evolu- 
tions by coryphees, in gauze skirts and low-cut 
bodices of all the colors of the rainbow, amid a 
crash of music the doors of the pavilion, erected in 
the center of the stage, flew open, and within, at 
the head of a broad flight of steps, appeared the 
bright, particular star of the ballet, Kosa Guerin. 
At sight of its favorite, the vast audience broke into 
a roar of applause, quite equal to that with which it 
had welcomed Julian! himself. 

The dancer was dressed in clouds of pale-gray 
tulle, garlg^nded with crimson roses, and a single 


A PARISIAK ROMANGZ 


77 


half-opened bud nestled in the masses of her dark 
hair. Her exquisitely modeled neck and her arms as 
beautifully proportioned as we imagine the lost 
arms of the Venus of Milo to have been, were un- 
marred by any jewel or ornament whatever. Her 
figure was simply perfection, as lithe and proudly 
poised, as that of a young goddess. Her face was 
not what could be called handsome, the forehead 
was too high and the gray eyes were set too closely 
together, but it was a face that first interested and 
finally fascinated. 

Her dancing was grace itself and possessed, more- 
over, a distinct stamp of individuality. She danced 
not only with her feet, but with her brains. There 
were none of those senseless gyrations, those mean- 
ingless smirks, those tours de force, indulged in by 
most ballet dancers, but her every action was the 
result of thought and her whole performance was 
full of delicate suggestion. It was little wonder 
that the Parisians, who, frothy and laughter loving 
as they are, are unrivaled critics in the world of 
art, had, without a dissenting voice, pronounced 
her queen of her profession. 

Baron Chevrial had but slight appreciation of 
music, but in the beauties of the female form he 
was a connoisseur, and all the time that Made- 
moiselle Guerin was upon the stage, he kept his 
opera-glass fixed upon her. His applause at the 
close of her ;pas seul was enthusiastic, possibly a 
little too much so. 


A PAJilSIAJ^ BOMAJiCK 


7 & 

“Considering that he is with his wife,” observed 
Vaiimartin to Tirandel, who sat beside him in the 
stalls, “our friend, the baron’s, appreciation of Rosa 
is a trifle too marked to be entirely in good taste.” 

“Beast!” ejaculated Tirandel, laconically. 

More than one man in the house shared this opin- 
ion of the king of finance, but had the baron been 
aware of all the uncomplimentary things said of 
him, he would have cared but little. Like Bismarck, 
he had no need of the liking of his fellow-beings, 
and was passably indifferent to criticism. 

In the next intermission, Chevrial excused him- 
self to the ladies and wandered out into the lobby, 
crowded with men, young and old, all in the regu- 
lation black coat and white cravat, the unbecoming 
livery of modern society. As he strolled up and 
down, smoking a cigarette, he was met everywhere 
with smiling nods and more than once button-holed 
by some speculator on the Bourse. Although his 
personal character was well known and the strict 
honesty of his dealings more than suspected, he 
was too much of a power in the financial world to 
be treated with anything but courtesy and a sem- 
blance of respect. Men, as a rule, overlook much 
more easily the faults of a rascal who has it in his 
power to benefit them, than those of an honest man 
from whom they can derive no advantage. 

The baron was far too clever not to realize the 
motive of the fawning adulation he received. His 
opinion of mankind was anything but a lofty one. 


A PAJilJSIAJ!^ ROMANCE, 


79 


He had once been heard to remark that if one had 
enough money to purchase all the consciences that 
were for sale, bought them at what they were worth 
and sold them at the price their owners estimated 
them, no more paying business could be imagined. 
He could undoubtedly have cited many examples to 
prove the truth of this opinion, but, had he at- 
tempted to base all his transactions upon it, he 
would probably have eventually met with ship- 
wreck. 

His cigarette finished, he left the brilliantly 
lighted lobby, with its gilding and frescoes, and 
mounting the stairs, entered a long, narrow passage 
to the left of the boxes on the second tier. A few 
steps in front of him, proceeding in the same direc- 
tion, was a broad-shouldered figure, which he recog- 
nized as that of Doctor Chesnel. 

“Doctor!” he called, quickening his steps a little. 
“Doctor!” 

The doctor turned, not too well pleased at the en- 
counter. 

“Good-evening, baron,” he said, politely enough. 

The baron laughed. 

“Caught, eh, my dear fellow,” he said, with a 
knowing wink. “Bound on the same errand as 
myself. ” 

“Bound in the same direction, but hardly on the 
same errand.” 

“Bah! Why did you seek the appointment of 
physician to the opera. To flirt with the damsels of 


80 


A FAJilJSIAN FOMAM^K 


the ballet, my dear doctor, to flirt with the damsels 
of the ballet.” 

“lean afford to,” was the dry response. “You 
cannot.” 

“Disagreeable, as usual.” 

“Disagreeable? No, sensible. You are looking 
badly, baron. Your nerves are in a worse condition 
than ever. See, how your hands tremble, and your 
voice is unsteady.” 

“Great heaven, doctor,” replied the baron, 
paling a little beneath his rouge. “ I must have a 
little amusement. You would deprive me of every- 
thing.” 

“Be advised in time,” was the brief response. 

“I will. I will. I am taking care of myself. I 
may be permitted a few minutes chat with Kosa, I 
suppose?” 

“You are wasting your time, there.” 

The baron smiled with the air of a conqueror. 

“ Ah, no. I have a plan there which cannot fail 
of success. In matters of that sort, the opportunity 
is sure to come. Chance fails man less often than 
man fails chance. And I flatter myself that I know 
how to take advantage of the proper moment.” 

The doctor made no reply. They had reached a 
small door at the end of the passage, with a little 
slide in the panel. 

Doctor Chesnel knocked twice in a peculiar man- 
ner, the slide shot back, and the upper part of a 
man’s face appeared in the opening. In another 


A PAliISIA2\r POMAAVK 81 

moment, the door swung back, and the two gentle- 
men passed through to the regions behind the 
scenes. 

Threading the mazes of ropes and scenery in the 
midst of hurrying carpenters and stage hands, they 
finally reached their destination—the Foyer de la 
Danse. 

It was a long, low room, full of ballet girls in 
abbreviated skirts and with their necks and arms 
covered with cloaks and shawls as a protection 
against the draught. Some of them, grasping a 
brass rod which ran along one side of the room 
about four feet from the fioor, were practicing exer- 
cises to render the muscles more fiexible, others 
were chatting among themselves, or bantering 
young fellows in full dress, who, by some means, 
had obtained admittance to the sacred precincts. 
Seated on low benches were a lot of old women, the 
mothers, real or hired for the sake of respectability, 
of the young ladies of the corps de ballet. Their 
hands were busy with knitting work and their 
tongues were clicking in unison over the last scan- 
dal of the coulisses. 

At one end of the room, wrapped in a magnificent 
fur-lined mantel which covered her from neck to 
foot and completely hid her ballet costume, stood 
Rosa Guerin, talking to a distinguished-looking 
man with white hair and mustache, who looked 
like a cabinet minister, but who was really a re- 
porter for the Figaro.” 


82 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


‘‘Ah ! the good doctor!” she exclaimed, as the two 
gentlemen approached, with a charming smile 
which displayed two rows of faultless teeth, the 
chief beauty of her face. “And you, 7no7i vieux,^^ she 
added, turning to the baron. “You have quite de- 
serted me lately.” 

The baron bent and touched his lips to the hand 
extended to him, a hand rather large, perhaps, but 
white and well-formed. • 

“ It is your h eartlessness that has driven me from 
your side,” he murmured. 

“My heartlessness!” she retorted, with a merry 
laugh. “Hear him, doctor! One would think he 
was a beardless boy, sighing for his first flame. 
My dear baron, that part of your anatomy that has 
done you service for a heart must be quite riddled 
by the shafts of the little love god,” 

The doctor joined in her merry laughter. Eosa 
Guerin was a prime favorite with him. He liked 
her frankness and good humor, and he respected 
her because, surrounded as she was by temptation, 
she had managed thus far to preserve a spotless 
reputation. 

The baron, not a whit abashed by her raillery, 
said, with a look which he meant to be fascinating, 
but which was really ridiculous in its languishing 
servility : 

“Will you ever be obdurate?” 

“There is but one way to win me, baron. The 
blessing of the church upon our union. But for the 


A PARISIAN ROMAR^CK 


8a 


present, charming as your society is, I must tear 
myself away. I have my costume to change. Good- 
night, doctor.” 

“ Good-night, my dear. You do not look as if you 
needed my services.” 

“No, thank Heaven for that. I am disgustingly 
healthy !” 

“It is cruel to tear yourself away,” murmured 
the baron, his little eyes gloating upon the splendid 
specimen of womanhood before him. 

“When my duty calls, mon cheVy pleasure must 
give way. Oh I by the way, I am worried about 
those investments.” 

The baron’s face assumed an expression of keen 
interest. 

“Indeed,” he asked. “Why?” 

“Not time to tell you now. I will call upon you 
to-morrow, perhaps. Your advice is invaluable to 
me.” 

“Would that my love was, also.” 

Her clear gray eyes swept over his face, haggard 
with dissipation, and his attenuated form, with a 
look of amusement. 

“ Keep those sweet speeches for those who believe 
them!” she retorted. “ Au revoir I” and she moved 
away with the broad, free grace, peculiar to herself. 

“That woman always reminds me of Diana,” said 
the doctor. 

“Confound her!” replied the baron, nervously 


84 


A FABItilAJi JiOMA^^OR 


gnawing his lip. “She’s cold enough for Diana in 
all conscience.” 

At present, Rosa was certainly Chevriars reign- 
ing divinity. Her indifference piqued him, and the 
more impossible it seemed to catch the charming 
bird, the more eager he became in her pursuit. 

The doctor stopped to inquire for one of the com- 
pany who was ill, and his questions answered, he 
turned to look for his companion. He found him 
playing the agreeable to two girls, rather pretty in 
a somewhat coarse way, who seemed only too flat* 
tered at his attentions. 

“Well, are you going back for the fourth act?” 

“No,-no,” said the baron, with a vacuous grin, 
“ It is much pleasanter here than listening to the 
squalling inside.” 

“As you please,” replied the doctor, coldly. 

“What a mockery of fate,” he thought, as he re- 
turned to the auditorium, “that a man like that 
should have won such a wife as he has. Ah ! mar- 
riage is indeed a lottery, and a lottery where fools 
and knaves win the prizes.” 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


85 


CHAPTER VIL 

THE MYSTERY DISCLOSED. 

Marcelle de Targy was a very happy woman, 
happy in her husband’s love, happy in her social 
success, happy in her youth and beauty. She loved 
society, balls, theaters, receptions, and all the thou- 
sand and one diversions of Parisian life. She 
thoroughly enjoyed each hour of the day with all 
the careless gayety of a butterfly in the sunshine, 
and with no more thought of the morrow than that 
frivolous insect. 

She was thinking something of all this, as she 
stood in front of the long glass in her boudoir, after 
her return from the opera, contemplating with a 
smile the reflection of her own lovely self, and her 
heart swelled with gratitude to the man who had 
surrounded her with such tender affection and 
lavished upon her all that heart of the most exact- 
ing woman could wish for. She removed the dia- 
monds from her neck, ears, and hair, and un- 
fastened one by one the jeweled ornaments which 
adorned the waist of her dress, singing in a low 
voice, as she did so, one of the airs of the opera she 
had just witnessed. 

“ Marcelle !” 


86 


A PABISIAN BOMANCE. 


A little startled, slie raised her eyes, and as she 
caught sight in the mirror of her husband’s face, 
she uttered a cry of alarm, it was so white and 
worn. 

“Great Heaven! Henri!” she exclaimed. “What 
has happened? How pale you are !” 

He came close to her side, and then said, in a 
very low voice : 

“Marcelle, I am afraid.” 

“Afraid!” she echoed, in amazement. “What do 
you mean? What has occurred?” 

He threw himself down in a chair near the 
bureau, and Marcelle, half curious, half fearful, 
waited for him to speak. 

“I scarcely know how to tell you,” he said. 
“After leaving you, I went up, as you know, to my 
mother’s room to bid her good-night. Her door 
was half open, but the portiere was drawn. I 
heard her walking about and talking to herself, as 
she often does; a few words reached my ear, ‘What 
remorse!’ she said. ‘My God! what remorse! I 
cannot bear it! I cannot bear it! My burden is 
too heavy for me!’ That is what I heard, and then 
what the doctor said to me once that there must be 
some secret weighing upon her mind, returned to 
me. And — and — I cannot tell you, I dare not tell 
you the horrible thought that rose up before me.” 

Marcelle knelt down beside his chair, and toc>k 
his hand in hers. 

“Henri!” she said, soothingly. “If you are in 


A FABISIA2i HOMANCK 


87 


trouble, let me share it; tell me, I implore you!” 

“Well, then,” he said, slowly, as if the words 
were difficult to enunciate, “ since she speaks of re- 
morse, she must therefore be— -be— guilty.” 

“Guilty!” 

“But of what fault?” he continued, not noticing 
his wife’s hhrrified exclamation. “And toward 
whom? I know she was not happy with my 
father— it was not her fault— but his sudden death. 
His sudden death! Could it have been brought 
about by any frightful discovery, or,” half in a 
whisper, “was it due to something worse? My 
God! Have I no right to love, to respect my 
mother? Is she unworthy of all I have felt for her?” 

He paused, and before his wife could reply, a low 
moan resounded through the room, a moan so full 
of anguish, that Marcelle involuntarily caught her 
breath, and Henri sprang to his feet. 

At the door of the room, which he had neglected 
to close on his entrance, stood his mother, attired in 
a long, black dressing-gown, with her snow-white 
hair flowing down her back, and her dark eyes 
glowing like coals of Are in her colorless face — a 
somber, awe-inspiring figure. 

“Unhappy boy!” she exclaimed, in a voice trem- 
bling with the emotion she was evidently striving 
to control. 

“Mother!” exclaimed Henri, advancing toward 
her. 

But she waved him back, 


88 


A PABISIAN ROMANCE, 


“You suspected me! me!” she said, with a mix- 
toe of grief and bitterness. “ I heard your foot- 
steps ; I saw you hurry away. And a vague un- 
easiness took possession of me. I determined to 
know the truth and I followed you. You suspected 
me!” 

She paused for a moment, and then, as if she had 
formed a sudden resolution, she continued vehe- 
mently : 

“ Ah ! no ! no ! anything rather than that ! Listen, 
I am going to tell you all ! But you will be angry 
with me afterward ! You will be angry with me !” 

“ Mother!” 

“Tell me,” and her voice sank into tones of ago- 
nized entreaty, as she sought to read his face, “ tell 
me that there is no sorrow in the world that you 
would not prefer to that of despising your mother.” 

“No,” he answered firmly, his eyes meeting hers, 
“there is none.” 

She sighed deeply ; then, as if fearful of her reso- 
lution giving way, she said, hurriedly: 

“Well, then, I will tell you all! I will tell you 
all, my poor children ! For you also, my poor little 
girl,” turning to Marcelle, who,, overwhelmed by an 
inexplicable fear of what was about to happen, had 
not risen from her kneeling posture beside the 
chair that Henri had vacated ; “ you also, my poor 
little girl, must know, and suffer.” 

“Mother darling!” murmured Marcelle. 

“Ah! my God!” moaned Madame de* Targy, 


A PARIISIAN ROMANCE, 


89 


clasping her hands and raising her eyes to heaven, 
“give me strength! It is so hard to tell— so hard!” 

Henri put his arm about her. 

“Compose yourself, dear mother.” 

Gently she disengaged herself from his embrace, 
and with a strong and successful effort at control, 
she asked, abruptly : 

“Henri, do you remember Count de Fervieres?” 

“Count de Fervieres!” he repeated, in puzzled 
astonishment. “Yes.” 

“You remember the strong friendship, the friend- 
ship which dated from the time they were boys 
together, which existed between him and your 
father?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“Although they were very different in almost 
every respect, they were as fond of each other as 
if they had been brothers, and confided in each 
other without reserve. I think Monsieur de Fer- 
vieres was the only person your father ever genu- 
inely cared for. He often aided with his advice 
and with his purse this friend, who was far from 
leading a life as regular as his own. Monsieur de 
Fervieres, among other follies, had a liaison with a 
woman moving in good society. I need not conceal 
her name ; for the liaison was the secret of all Paris ; 
her husband was ignorant of it.” 

“Madame d^ Ambleuse?” asked Henri. 

“What!” exclaimed Marcelle, in the utmost aston- 
ishment. “Armande ChevriaPs mother?” 


90 


A FAmSTAJi BOMA^VR 


‘‘Yes. Well,” resumed Madame de Targy, in the 
same contained, measured tones she had used from 
fhe beginning of her narration, “Monsieur de Fer- 
\ ieres, rightly or wrongly, regarded Mademoiselle 
d’ Ambleuse, now Baroness Chevrial, as his daugh- 
ter. When he died, half a dozen years ago, as he 
had no near relatives, he desired to leave his 
fortune, a considerable one, to Armande d’ Am- 
bleuse. But Madame d' Ambleuse’s husband was 
living at that time, and it was impossible so long 
as he lived, to leave such a legacy to his legal 
daughter without opening his eyes to his wife’s 
shame and his own. To realize his intentions in re- 
gard to the young girl. Monsieur de Fervieres was 
therefore forced to postpone putting them into exe- 
cution until the moment that Monsieur d’ Ambleuse 
should be no more. As the French law does not 
recognize what is known as a trusteeship. Monsieur 
de Fervieres, to accomplish his purpose, left by will 
his entire fortune to your father.” 

“To my father?” echoed Henri, who had listened 
with the most absorbed attention to every word 
that fell from his mother’s lips. He was far from 
understanding what this old and painful story could 
have to do with her strange condition since his 
father’s death ; but he was more than anxious to 
hear her to the end that she might be relieved of 
this secret whatever it might be, which she had 
borne so long in silence, and the effects of which 
had been so disastrous to he? health and spirits. 


A PARISIAN POJfANOK ' 91 

Monsieur de Fervieres had absolute confidence 
in him,” said Madame de Targy, “ and your father 
deserved it— up to that time.” 

“Up to that time!” exclaimed Henri, more and 
more puzzled. 

There was a long pause, during which Madame 
de Targy was evidently nerving herself for the 
painful ordeal before her. Then, she proceeded a 
little less calmly than hitherto : 

“So your father received this inheritance, amount- 
ing to nearly three millions of francs, upon the con- 
dition, verbal but sacred, that he should transmit it 
to the daughter of Madame d’ Ambleuse, after the 
death of the husband. I knew nothing of all this 
at the time. Four years ago. Monsieur d’ Ambleuse, 
who had been very ill for a long time, died at Nice. 
This was while you were abroad. His wife did not 
long survive him. From that time, your father’s 
health was much impaired, until he was finally 
struck, on the day of Armande d’ Ambleuse’s wed- 
ding, by that attack from which he never recov- 
ered. It was not till then, in the last hours of his 
life, that he confided to me the terrible secret which 
had so weighed upon him. Do you begin to under- 
stand, my poor boy?” 

It was scarcely necessary to ask this question. 
The look of horror, which had been gradually deep- 
ening upon Henri’s face, showed that he did. 

“Is it possible!” he faltered. “He had squandered 
the fortune that had been intrusted to his care?” 


92 


A PABIJSIAK BOMABCK 


“Oh!” said Madame de Targy, quickly. “Do not 
judge him, do not condemn him too severely before 
knowing all. Your father had invested this fortune 
in several different places. One of the sums in- 
vested, six or seven hundred thousand francs, I 
think, was ingulfed in the failure of the Smithson 
house in London. Then to restore the fund he held 
in trust to its original figures, your father was 
forced to take from his own fortune the amount 
lost. He tried to recover it by speculations on the 
Bourse, which proved unlucky. We both know, 
Henri, your father’s feelings, but he was an honest 
man. Finally, he lost all he possessed, and when 
the time came to pay over to Armande the money, 
he found staring him in the face the alternative of 
reducing us all to absolute poverty, want perhaps, 
or of failing to keep his word.” 

“Is it possible!” ejaculated Henri, burying his 
face in his hands. “And he bequeathed to you this 
horrible burden!” 

“Henri,” said his mother gently, placing her thin 
white hand softly upon his head. “ Forgive him ! 
He suffered so much.” 

Oh ! divine charity of woman ! All she had under- 
gone from her husband’s coldness and neglect was 
forgotten, and she remembered him only with feel- 
ings of pardon and pity. 

Henri raised his head and took her hands in his. 
He was very pale. He realized all that the story 


A JW3IA^'CZ 


93 


he had just heard involved, and a terrible struggle 
was evidently going on in his breast. 

“Yes, yes, mother,” he said, “I forgive him. I 
forgive him! But what are we going to do now? 
Nearly three millions! But it is all that we have, 
even with your dowry, even with that of Marcelle. 
It is absolute ruin ! If I were alone it would matter 
but little. I could live, no matter how ! But you, 
mother, and this poor girl to whom I had promised 
wealth and happiness, and whom I shall drag down 
with me into this abyss of poverty!” 

Marcelle, at this, rose to her feet, and threw her 
arras about his neck. 

“Henri! Henri dear !” she sobbed. “Becalm! I 
will be brave! I will have courage! I promise 
you.” 

Henri smoothed her bright hair gently, gazing 
down upon her with a look of unutterable tender- 
ness and sympathy. 

“Yes,” he murmured, “you think so now, poor 
child. You are sincere, I know it; but the downfall 
will be too much for you. You will no longer love 
me !” 

She started from him, and brushed away the tears 
from her eyes. 

“Henri!” she exclaimed, in indignant protest. 

“She will no longer love me, mother,” he con- 
tinued, nearly beside himself, as the future in all 
its hopeless horror loomed up before him. “What 
can you expect? Why should she love me? I am 


94 


A FABISIA^r BOMAJfTOM 


neither handsome, nor talented, nor anything! To 
please her, I had nothing save that wealth which 
permitted all that she loves, to give her all the best 
that life has to give.” 

“ Henri ! stop !” cried Marcelle, passionately. “You 
wrong me, you hurt me terribly. It is not true 1” 

With a sudden revulsion of feeling, he caught 
her in his arms, and covered her face with kisses, 
with broken words pleading for pardon. Then, re- 
leasing her, he turned, and commenced pacing 
slowly up and down the room. Madame de Targy 
drew Marcelle into her embrace, and in utter silence 
the two women awaited his decision. 

It was a terrible question to face. To give up his 
fortune? Reduce his wife and mother to poverty? 
And for whom? Whom would this renunciation in 
reality profit? The Baron Chevrial, already ten 
times a millionaire, a shrewd financier, a cynical 
roue, a man without heart, faith, or truth. To ruin 
his wife and mother to enrich that man ! But, after 
all, this money, which had been placed in his 
father’s hands, had not been taken by him; he had 
never obtained any advantage from it. It had 
disappeared partially in a failure which no one 
could have foreseen and for which no one was to 
blame. His father had risked the rest, imprudently, 
to be sure, but he had kept nothing for himself. 
Hot a sou of that fortune had benefited him or his 
family. As Henri reached this point in his reflec- 


A BOMAIf'CK 


95 


tion, he stopped suddenly, and facing his mother, 
he asked : 

“ Mother, did my father ever have any doubt that 
we were morally bound to return this money, at the 
expense of our own fotune?” 

Madame de Targy hesitated an instant, and then 
she answered, very gravely: 

“Yes, he had some doubts, but I am sure that his 
conscience troubled him greatly. But, Henri, you 
are the head of the family. Now, that you know 
the truth, I prefer to offer no advice or opinion. It 
is for you alone to decide what you must do.” 

“Ho one in the world except us knows this secret?” 

“No one.” 

With a deep sigh, he sank into a chair and cov- 
ered his face with his hands. Nothing was heard 
in the room save the half-sobbing breathing of Mar- 
cello as she lay in her mother-in-law’s arms. 

Suddenly Henri rose to his feet, and, advancing 
toward them with a composed, resolute face, he said 
in a low, clear voice : 

“Mother, we will give it all back, every soul” 


96 


A PAJiJSIAJi JiOMA2iCK 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ROSA’S SPECULATIONS. 

Baron Chevrial resided in a superb hotel in one of 
the n:.ost exclusive streets of the Fauborg Saint 
Germain. It had formerly been the property of a 
noble family belonging to the ancient regime, who 
had been forced by poverty to part with it, and it 
had been bought by ChevriaTs father, a baron of 
the Second Empire, who was of partial Semitic 
origin and who, by financial aid to the government, 
had purchased his title at the time when Napoleon 
III. was bestowing patents of nobility with a liberal 
hand. Both the present baron and his father had 
had the good taste to leave the fine old mansion 
undisturbed by the vandal hand of the modern 
architect. The house stood some distance back 
from the street, and before it, surrounded by a high 
wall, was a garden of considerable extent, planted 
with magnificent old trees. 

The Chevrials had at first been completely ignored 
by the aristocratic Fauborg, but, one by one, the 
golden key had unlocked the doors, and to day the 
baron was received in the most fashionable circles. 
His marriage to Armande d’ Ambleuse, who was 
connected with some of the most exclusive of the 


A PAIi/SIJ2^ 


97 


old nobility, had done much to strengthen the 
social position, which his vast wealth and his ability 
as a financier had obtained for him. 

The morning after his visit to the Foyer de la 
Danse of the opera, the baron sat writing in a 
medium-sized apartment, half office, half study, on 
the ground fioor of his hotel. Beyond it was an 
anteroom, with a door opening into a side street. 
In this room, it was the baron’s custom to receive 
such of his friends and clients, of both sexes, as, 
for one reason or another, it was not convenient or 
becoming to receive in his drawing-room or his 
office at the bank. If the walls could have spoken, 
they would have told many a tale, which we fancy 
the baron, disdainful as he pretended to be of public 
opinion, would not have cared to have repeated to 
the world at large. 

“There,” he said at last, throwing down his pen, 
and turning to a clean-shaven, middle-aged man, 
who stood at the other end of the room, apparently 
awaiting orders, “those letters are finished. Am- 
broise, give them to Jules, and tell him I shall be at 
the bank by one o’clock. And bring me my dumb- 
bells.” 

“Very well, monsieur,” replied the man, gather- 
ing up the letters, and retiring by a door which led 
to the other part of the house. 

The baron pushed back his chair, and rose to his 
feet. As he did so, a look of vexation appeared 
upon his face, and he steadied himself against the 


98 A PABISIAN ROMANCE, 

table with a hand that trembled a little beneath his 
weight. 

‘‘Confound it!” he muttered, half aloud. “My 
legs are frightfully shaky this morning, nerves all 
unstrung. It must be muggy out to-day. Every 
day that it is warm and close, I notice that my legs 
are bad.” 

And he commenced stamping about the room to 
restore the circulation. Then, going to a magnifi- 
cent carved sideboard, he poured out half a glass of 
brandy, which he drank off at a gulp. 

This steadied him, somewhat, and he was teeling 
considerably better, when Ambroise returned bear- 
ing an absurdly small pair of dumb-bells, hardly 
larger than those used by a child. 

“Good!” said Chevrial. “Tell me, Ambroise, 
what sort of weather it is outside. Is it warm?” 

“ITo, monsieur. It is freezing.” 

“Freezing!” ejaculated the baron. “Humph! 
Humph! Then it must be the heat from those 
steam-pipes. There is nothing which enervates a 
man so as these confounded steam-pipes.” 

As he spoke, he threw off his dressing-gown, re- 
vealing as he did so a hollow chest and a very 
narrow pair of shoulders. He took a dumb-bell in 
each hand and raised them with evident effort half 
a dozen times above his head. Then, dropping 
them to his sides, he asked, gasping a little for 
breath : 

“Well, that is not so bad, is it? I am improving.” 


A PAJUSIAy ROMANCE, 


99 


‘‘ Monsieur is gaining every day,” was the calm 
reply. 

Ambroise was a well-trained servant and, when 
occasion demanded, knew how to play the role of 
Ananias, without flinching. 

The baron grinned and nodded approval of this 
opinion. 

‘‘No! no!” he said, modestly, however. “I am 
simply holding my own ! simply holding my own, 
Ambroise. But, even that is a great deal.” 

And once more, staggering a little, he slowly 
raised the weights into the air. 

It must be confessed, with all due deference to 
the mighty king of the Bourse, that physically he 
was not a model of strength or beauty. When 
dressed, his flgure was passably good, thanks to 
his tailor’s judicial padding of the chest and shoul- 
ders, but en deshaUlle, he looked pitiably weak and 
shrunken. 

As he stood, with the dumb-bells uplifted, his 
arms and legs trembling violently and his breath 
coming in short gasps, a hearty voice behind him 
exclaimed : 

“ Bravo ! Superb ! The Hercules Farnese !” 

The baron started, and the dumb-bells fell with a 
crash from his nerveless grasp. 

Mon Dieur he cried, angrily. “What do you mean 
by startling one so?” Then, as he turned and saw 
who the new-comer was, he added more amiably, 
“Oh! is it you, doctor?” 


100 


A FAJilSIAN 


The doctor, whose cheeks were glowing from the 
effects of a brisk walk in the frosty air and who 
looked the personification of health, advanced into 
the room. 

“I found no one in the antechamber,” he said, 
apologetically, ‘‘and so I took the liberty of coming 
in. I beg your pardon.” 

“Oh! that’s all right, doctor,” replied Chevrial, 
motioning to his servant to help him on with his 
dressing-gown. “ I did not know you were there, 
and you gave me a start. You see, T have followed 
your advice and I.am cultivating my muscles.” 

“And that’s where you are right. Withouut mus- 
cles, no strength.” 

“Do you desire anything more, monsieur?” asked 
Ambroise^. 

“No, not now. If I want you, I will call you. 
You can remain in the anteroom.” 

After the servant had retired. Doctor Chesnel 
said, jovially: 

“Well, Croesus, how are you to-day?” 

“Humph!” said the baron. “That’s what I want 
to ask you. My dear doctor,” he contiuned, diylj^, 
“ if I wish you to make me a morning visit twice a 
week, it is not for the purpose of having you ask 
me how I am, but because I want you to tell me 
that very thing.” 

There was a queer expression about the doctor’s 
mouth as he answered, shortly : 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


101 


‘‘Very well; sit down! Let me see your tongue. 
Humph ! And now your pulse ! Atrocious 1” 

The baron looked up uneasily. 

“No, seriously, doctor!” 

“Atrocious!” repeated Chesnel, emphatically. 
“You are in a very bad state. You lead a deplora- 
ble life; you eat too much, you drink too much, 
you smoke too much, et cetera— especially the et 
cetera.” 

“But, doctor,” said the baron, in a querulous 
tone, “ permit me to say that if I wished to lead the 
life of a saint in its niche, I should have no need of 
your services. If I have the honor to consult you 
twice a week ” 

The doctor straightened himself up with a 
haughty movement. 

“You have already said that!” he interrupted, 
brusquely. 

Chevrial took no notice, but went on composedly : 

“ To consult you. Doctor Chesnel, the medical ad- 
viser of the opera, the first physician in Paris, it is 
because I wish to indulge myself in all pleasures I 
have a taste for, without injuring my health and 
shortening my life. Look here, doctor ; tell me — in 
this great century which is supremely scientific, is 
vour science the only one that has remained 
stationary and powerless, the only one that has 
made no conquests over nature? Is it not the 
mission and duty of your profession to bring to a 
state of perfection the various organs pf our body. 


102 


A FABISIAN ROMANCE. 


to increase our strength and our faculties in pro- 
portion to the needs and tastes which civilization 
multiplies in man? Take me as an example!” The 
doctor shrugged his shoulders, but, setting himself 
back in his chair, resigned himself to listen. ‘‘I 
have a fine fortune. I have the means to satisfy 
all the desires of an ardent heart, a cultivated 
palate, and a powerful and refined imagination, and 
you want me to be nourished on gruel ! This being 
the case, what does your science amount to? What 
is it good for?” 

The doctor threw one leg over the other, folded 
his hands, and looked at his companion quizzically 
for a moment before replying. 

“Good for?” he repeated. “For nothing. That is 
to say — pardon me — it is of service to warn you that 
if you continue your present course of life ” 

He stopped short, and then asked, apparently 
apropos of nothing : 

“Do you remember how the regent died?” 

The baron looked puzzled then, and frowned. 

“The regent?” he said. “Perfectly. During his 
last interview with Madame de Falaris.” 

“Exactly,” returned the doctor, gravely. “Well, 
since you know your history of France so well, re- 
fiect upon the lessons to be drawn from it. And 
with that advice, my dear baron,” rising, “I leave 
you. Put on the drag ! Mend your ways ! 

The baron rose also, and, with an anxiety which 


A pabisia:^ bomange. 


103 


was not feigned, laid his hand upon the doctor’s 
arm to detain him. 

‘‘No, no, my dear doctor,” he said, “don’t go yet, 
two words more, I beg. When speaking of bracers, 
tonics, some of my friends have strongly recom- 
mended arsenic.” 

The last word was scarcely out of his mouth when 
the doctor turned upon him in a manner that was 
almost tragic. 

“Are you mad?” he exclaimed, fiercely. 

“I was only asking your opinion,” faltered the 
baron, intimidated in spite of himself. 

“No,” said the doctor, more calmly. “No drugs! 
Hygiene, and again hygiene, and forever hygiene ! 
A radical change in your mode of living. Good- 
morning.” 

He turned to go, but the baron again laid a de- 
taining hand upon his sleeve. 

“One moment, doctor. There is another thing 
which troubles me. You don’t like me !” 

The doctor stared, and then replied, coolly : 

“What makes you think so?” 

“I feel it.” 

“ Well, to tell you the truth,” declared Chesnel, 
with the suspicion of a smile, “you are not sympa- 
thetic to me.” 

“I thought so!” 

“But,” contined the doctor, seriously, “that does 
not prevent my conscientiously attending you. 
When you were so ill with diphtheria, I do not think 


104 


A PABISIAK BOMANCE. 


you had any reason to complain of me. I am even 
convinced that I saved your life. But it was purely 
from a professional sense of duty ; my heart was 
not in it.” 

This was all said, without the slightest offensive- 
ness, but simply as if it were a commonplace state- 
ment of facts, and the baron received it good- 
humoredly enough. 

“But,” he persisted, ‘‘what are your reasons for 
not liking me, doctor?” 

“ Because we have not the same ideas in regard to 
anything,” was the calm response; “we have not 
the same principles.” 

The baron laughed — not a pleasant laugh to hear. 

“What nonsense! It sems to me, on the contrary, 
that we are in the same boat. We are both philos- 
ophers. I believe in scarcely anything, and it is the 
same with you, I think. You evidently agree with 
me that, during the short space of time we remain 
upon this earth, the best thing we can do is to enjoy 
ourselves as much as we can.” 

“ That may be true ; but, nevertheless, our points 
of view are different. And, as I said, we have not 
the same principles.” 

“The same principles! What do you mean? What 
do you blame me for? My fortune? But my money, 
like yours, was acquired by work. I may amuse 
myself an the evening, but I work all day. Of 
course, when one becomes rich, there are plenty 
who envy him, and he has many detractors. A 


A BOJIAB'OB. 


105 


man can only get rich at the expense of others, and 
there are, I know, jackasses who have made accu- 
sations against me. You must remember I have 
been in business twenty years, and in business you 
must look out for yourself. Still, have you ever 
seen me behind the bars of a cell.” 

“Not yet!” 

The baron flushed. This was rather plain speak- 
ing, and, surrounded as he was by sycophants and 
flatterers, he was not used to it. It was not the first 
time the doctor had been brutally frank, but still, 
by one of those vagaries to which human nature is 
liable, perhaps the baron liked him better than any 
other man he knew. At all events he had too much 
confidence in him as a physician to quarrel with 
him, so smothering his annoyance, he answered, 
lightly: 

“ And you will never see me there ; you can rest 
assured of that. I know the law too well. No, 
after all, doctor, I have only one fault, and that is 
so slight, so eminently French — I love women, I am 
simply devoted to the dear creatures. Why, I even 
loved my own wife, at one time, I pledge you my 
word I did. And the drollest thing about it all is 
that the more I see of them, the more I love them!” 

“It is not droll; it is dangerous!” retorted the 
doctor. 

Chevrial smiled disdainfully. When he smiled, 
his little eyes almost closed, his lips relaxed, and all 


106 


A PABISIAN ROMANGK 


the animal characteristics of his face were more 
pronounced than ever. 

‘‘Now look here, doctor;” he said, “you preach 
well, but every one knows that you’re no saint. I 
have watched you more than once, and I compli- 
ment you on your powers of fascination. Why, you 
love women just as much as I do.” 

“Certainly,” replied Chevrial, slowly, in his most 
sarcastic drawl. “Certainly, 1 love women; that is 
to say, I love the society of women, V odor difemina, 
as I love flowers, pictures, music, all beautiful 
things. But there is a shade of difference between 
us, baron. I am a dilettante, you are a dehaucheeV^ 

There was a pause, and then the baron ejaculated 
dryly: 

“Thanks!” 

He was about to say more, but at this moment 
there was a discreet tap upon the door of the ante- 
chamber, and Ambroise appeared. 

“Well! What is it?” asked the baron. 

“Mademoiselle Guerin, of the opera, monsieur.” 

As if by magic, the baron’s face cleared. 

“Good! Show her in,” he said. 

The doctor picked up his hat and cane from the 
table, and said, with a threatening shake of the 
fingers : 

“The regent! Remember! I will escape the 
other way.” 

“No, no!” cried Chevrial. “Remain. There is no 


A PARISIAN ROJfANCK 


107 


indiscretion in doing so. Unfortunately, she has 
proved thus far a dragon of virtue.” 

Rosa Guerin was a favorite with the doctor as we 
know ; she was so bright that he was always glad 
of the opportunity of a chat with her ; so he allowed 
himself to be persuaded. 

“So, you acknowledge that?” he said, replacing 
his hat and stick. 

“I am forced to, and yet who would think it from 
her manner.” 

“Well, you know, appearances are often ” 

“Deceitful!” cried a gay voice, finishing the 
proverb, and Mademoiselle Rosa herself appeared 
in the door- way. 

A brilliant apparition it was, indeed. Her dress 
of black and yellow fitted her magnificent figure, as 
if she had been poured into it. A broad black hat, 
adorned with long plumes and loops of gold cord, 
shaded her bright, if rather plain face, and in her 
hand she carried a parasol with a handle at least 
five feet long. 

“Don’t disturb yourselves, I pray,” she exclaimed, 
with a charming smile. “ Good-morning, dear doc- 
tor.” Then, with a profound cuortesy. “Baron, 
your m.ost obedient, humble servant.” 

“So! so!” said the baron, returning her salute 
with one no less mockingly deferential. “You 
listen at doors, do you, my dear?” 

“It is my greatest delight,” was the laughing re- 
sponse. 


108 


A FAHISIAI^ BOMAJ^CK 


‘‘Well, this time, you proved the time-honored 
proverb that listeners hear no good of themselves 
to be false. I was praising your correctness of 
demeanor and complaining of your coldness. 
Heavens !” with a glance of bold admiration. “ How 
superb you are to-day.” 

“Yes,” she replied, indifferently. “This is a gown 
I made especially for the races. So glad you like it. 
I am going to Longchamps. Aren’t you going, too?” 

The baron shook his head. 

“ Well, I am. I have a lot of money bet upon the 
Omnium. 

“Indeed! Upon what horse, asked the baron. 

“ Cupid.” 

“Is he your favorite— Cupid ? Queer idea, that.” 

“Why is Cupid a queer idea?” she asked, de- 
murely, pretending not to understand. “You evi- 
dently know nothing of the Stud-book, mo7i clier, 
Cupid is the son of Stockwell and own brother to 
Rataplan, who won the Saint-Leger, the Two Thou- 
sand Guineas, the Yorkshire Stakes, and the Whip 
at ‘N’ewmarket. I hope that he is going to win me 
a hundred louis to-day.” 

“I doubt it,” said Chevrial. “However, that’s 
your own lookout.” 

During this conversation, the doctor, leaning neg- 
ligently against the mantel, was watching the star 
of the ballet with quite as warm an admiration as 
that felt by the baron, although it was far different 
in kind. As he noted her sparkling eye, her clear. 


A FABISIAJf^ BOMAAVK 


109 


smooth complexion with the warm blood mantling 
beneath the skin and the firm, strong poise of her 
figure, he was thinking that he had rarely, if ever, 
seen such a magnificent specimen of pure, physical 
health. Mentally he knew her to be healthy also, 
keen-witted, with plenty of hard common sense, 
and quite capable of holding her own against the 
blandishments of the gilded youth who fluttered 
about her like moths about a candle, and with some- 
thing of the same result. 

“ Are you still determined to have no mercy on 
this poor heart of mine?” asked the baron, insinu- 
atingly.” 

“‘Still harping on my daughter?’ ” quoted Rosa, 
laughingly. “ How many times must I tell you, my 
dear baron, that it is my fixed resolution never to 
accept a heart without the hand?” 

“Bah!” ejaculated the baron. “How about the 
late Monsieur Colombieres, my dear girl.” 

“You are very rude, and that allusion is, to say 
the least, indelicate. You know very well that we 
were to have been married.” 

“Yes, but the prospect did not save his life.” 

Rosa made a grimace, and pretended to strike 
him with the handle of her parasol. 

“Did you ever see such a brute, doctor?” she ex- 
claimed. “If w'e were not such good friends, I 
should be very angry. Seriously, baron,” she con- 
tinued, turning to Chevrial, “how can you expect 
me to believe you when you make me such absurd 


110 


A PABI8IAN BOMANCK 


declarations, rolling: up the whites of your eyes? 
By the way, you should conquer that habit, it is not 
becoming.” 

She crossed the room with the free, graceful step 
which was peculiar to her and which betrayed her 
profession, seated herself nonchalantly on the arm 
of a chair, and then asked in the most matter-of- 
fact manner possible : 

“ If you adore me, as you pretend to do, what 
prevents your marrying me?” 

The baron chuckled gleefully. 

“She is charming, absolutely charming!” he ex- 
claimed. “Why, my wife, first of all.” 

“Your wife? Pooh!” replied Rosa, disrespect- 
fully, sweeping back her gorgeous draperies of silk 
and lace, and displaying one slender arched foot. 
“That is an absurd reason, my dear baron. You 
know, as well as I do, that we have divorce in 
France now. Your wife is no obstacle, therefore. 
I have not the honor of her acquaintance. But, like 
most fashionable women, she must be inclined at 
times to take the bit in her mouth, to make use of a 
horsey expression. You will be delighted to be rid 
of her, and I am sure that the joy will be reciprocal.” 

“You are right,” said the baron, drawing closer to 
where she sat, “ and who knows what may happen 
some day.” 

The doctor smlied grimly beneath his grizzled 
mustache. He was pretty confident that Rosa was 
too fond of her liberty to barter it away even for a 


A FABISIAN BOMAJVCK 


111 


title and wealth, and, had the baron been and 
induced by his passion to offer her his hand, he 
would probably have been refused. Chevrial, how- 
ever, had no suspicion of anything of this sort. He 
believed himself irresistibly fascinating to the fair 
sex, and, while he was piqued by her resistance, he 
was convinced that Kosa would sooner or later suc- 
cumb. Besides, he had laid a trap, which it was 
well-nigh impossible that she could escape. 

“But, tell me,” suddenly exclaimed the dancer, 
“why is the doctor here this morning? Are you ill?” 

“No,” said the doctor. 

“No,” echoed Chevrial, “not ill, but not exactly in 
trim.” 

“Humph!” said Rosa. “lean well believe that. 
You have certainly not been what could be called in 
robust health, for some time. But whose fault is 
that? I have not the honor of knowing your wife, 
as I said before, but I am sure that she takes bad 
care of you. Now, I would take the best of care of 
you. If I had you in charge, you would be as strong 
as an ox.” 

Chevrial laughed. 

“She understands me,” he thought to himself. 

“For you must know, doctor,” continued Rosa, 
“that I have a theory in regard to medical treat- 
ment.” 

The doctor bowed. 

“Please let me hear it, mademoiselle,” he said. “I 
am only too happy to be one of your pupils.” 


112 


A PARISIAN ROM^NCK 


“Well, my theory is that men should be treated 
like horses. When you want to put a horse in per- 
fect condition, you train him. Why should what 
succeeds with a horse not succeed equally well with 
a man? Now here, for instance, is the baron, whose 
present condition leaves much to be desired. He is 
entirely broken down. He is overridden ; the pace 
has been too fast for him.” 

“That’s one way to put it,” said the baron, 
smiling though not overpleased. 

“It is the solemn truth,” replied Rosa. “Now, if 
he had the advantage of being my husband, in a 
year that man would be unrecognizable. He would 
no longer need your care, doctor ; I should be very 
sorry for you, but he would no longer need your 
care.” 

“How would you manage that?” asked the doctor, 
highly amused. 

“I will tell you,” said Rosa, rising and speaking 
in a tone of mock solemnity. “Being a woman of 
strong will, I should obtain absolute empire over 
him, and I should compel him to conform to my 
theory. Every spring, and every autumn if needs 
be, he would have to undergo a severe course of 
training. To bring him into the best condition, I 
would physic him as they do a yearling, then I 
would wrap him in blankets and make him trot, 
and even gallop, at full speed. Hi there! Hi there! 
Hip! Hip! Hopla!” and she flourished her long 
parasol as if it were the whip of a trainer. “I 


A PABISIAJ^ IiOMA:^'CJEi 113 

assure you,” she concluded, “that after that, he 
would be in perfect health.” 

The doctor laughed heartily, and the baron and 
Rosa joined in his merriment. 

“But, come,” said Rosa, becoming suddenly seri- 
ous. We are wasting time. Enough of nonsense! 
To business. 

As she spoke, she seated herself before the 
writing-desk, and drew a memorandum-book from 
her pocket. 

“You must know, doctor,” she said, “that this 
delightful baron, while waiting for the happy day 
that shall make us one, is kind enough to aid me to 
invest and increase my modest savings. Yes, he 
most generously places at my service his vast ex- 
perience and his incomparable judgment as to 
operations on the Bourse.” 

“ Indeed ! Do you speculate on the Bourse, Made- 
moiselle Ror;a?” asked the doctor. 

“Do I speculate on the Bourse? Well, I should 
say I did. And so I come here every once in a 
while to obtain information from this mighty per- 
sonage, and take notes as to what stocks I shall 
buy, and what I shall sell. Will you allow us to 
talk business for a moment or two, doctor?” 

“By all means, mademoiselle. It will be a lesson 
for me also.” 

The baron drew a chair near the desk, and sat 
astride it, his arms resting on the back of it, and 


114 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE, 


his little, sunken eyes fixed upon the bright face of 
his charming client. 

“Well, I am at your service,” he said. 

“Would you believe it, doctor,” said Rosa, “the 
first time I ever speculated, he made me buy Turk- 
ish securities, and I made money. I was never so 
surprised in my life. I did not expect it.” 

“Neither did I,” thought the baron, but he made 
no remark. 

Rosa consulted her memorandum-book a moment 
or two, and then she said, refiectively : 

“ M-m-m — these Finnish railroad bonds you made 
me buy — they didn’t go up— they have even gone 
down. Shall I sell?” 

“Not yet,” said the baron, emphatically. “By ne 
means. The Finnish bonds are excellent. Only, 
you know, Finland is a mountainous country, and 
there are many tunnels to be built. But the work 
is going on and the bonds will certainly take a 
terrific bound, upward.” 

Rosa raised her eyes until they rested full upon 
his face. 

“You advise me to keep them, then?” 

“Certainly! By all means, keep your Finnish 
bonds, and even buy more, if you can.” 

“I had an idea of exchanging them for some 
shares in the Bank of Sweden.” 

Chevrial uttered an exclamation of horror. 

“Don’t think of it!” he said, emphatically. “Don’t 
think of it!” 


A FABJJSIAIf ROMANCE, 


115 


“But,” exclaimed the doctor, in a tone of surprise, 
“ I heard you tell Tirandel, the other day, that the 
Bank of Sweden was excellent stock to buy.” 

As the baron heard these words, he felt very 
much like kicking the doctor for his blundering 
interference, but he only said, blandly : 

“Tirandel! Tirandel is an idiot. I cannot afford 
to expose the state of the market to him.” 

“Then, no Bank of Sweden,” said Rosa, making a 
note in her memorandum-book. “ Always and ever 
the Finnish bonds?” 

“Exactly,” replied Chevrial. “Stick to the Fin- 
nish bonds P 

“Very well! But if they don’t go up, it will make 
a serious difference to me, I assure you.” 

Chevrial twisted the spiked ends of his sparse 
mustache, and replied calmly : 

“ Of course ; there is a certain amount of luck in 
it all. Unforeseen circumstances may change the 
whole face of affairs. If you don’t wish to risk 
anything, don’t speculate, that’s all.” 

And he rose as if to end the discussion ; but Rosa 
motioned him to sit dowi^^gain, saying: 

“Now don’t be disagreeable! I have not half 
finished yet. How about my mining stocks?” 

“Humph!” said the baron. “It was not I who 
made you buy those.” 

“ No, I know it, but you told me to be sure and 
keep them. You see, doctor, my mining stocks are 


116 


A PAliJS/AJiT JiOMAIiCB. 


a remembrance from that poor Colombieres. They 
were way down when he left them to me.” 

“And so was he!” observed the baron, dryly. 

“Idiot! And my first thought,” she continued, 
“ was to sell them, but this man here persuaded me 
to keep them. He said they were certain to rise 
some day.” - 

“And I say so still!” 

“But you said I should double my money. Now, 
why hasn’t this happened?” 

“ It is sure to before long. A little patience, my 
dear. However, sell your mining stocks, if you 
like. Shall I buy them of you?” 

“No, no,” retorted Kosa, quickly. “I will keep 
them. You know what blind .confidence I have in 
you!” 

At this declaration the doctoi' coughed signifi- 
cantly. Kosa laughed and shook her finger at him 
threateningly. But the baron wheeled about and 
said somewhat irritably: 

“Good heavens! I am not infallible. I may give 
bad advice as well as anybody else. Only, when I 
do, it is usually done on purpose.” 

This was a slip, a thing of which the astute 
financier was rarely guilty. Rosa dropped her 
pencil and note-book, and stared at him with round 
wondering eyes, although a close observer would 
have noticed that the corners of her mouth were 
drawn with an expression of amusement. 

“What!” she exclaimed. 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


117 


'' Ahr cried Chevrial, recollecting himself. “ What 
did I say? I mean, of course, when I give bad ad- 
vice, it is a great misfortune. I always act in good 
faith, and give the best advice I know how.” 

“Do your victims believe that?” asked the doctor, 
satirically. 

“I don’t understand you, my dear doctor,” re- 
sponded the baron, suavely. “I have no victims.” 

“Poor fellow!” exclaimed Rosa, with affected 
compassion; while her gray eyes sparkled with 
amusement. “That wicked doctor is really too hard 
upon you.” 

The baron shrugged his shoulders. 

“He does not like me,” he said, briefly. 

At this moment, Ambroise appeared in the door- 
way. 

“Well, what is it?” asked the baron. 

“Your tailor is here, monsieur.” 

“Will you excuse me a moment? No, don’t go,” 
as Rosa and the doctor rose. “ I shall only be gone a 
moment. It is only to try on a coat.” 

When they were alone, the doctor, after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, approached the danseuse, and 
said, in a confidential tone. 

“ My dear Mademoiselle Rosa, in return for the 
many delightful evenings for which I am indebted 
to your accomplishments, may I dare to offer a 
little piece of advice?” 

Rosa raised her eyes in bewilderment. 

“Advice?” 


118 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE, 


‘‘Yes. I don’t know very much about matters of 
business, but after the conversation I have just 
listened to— I— I— in short, my dear young lady, are 
you quite sure that our friend Chevrial deserves all 
the confidence with which you honor him?” 

Eosa Guerin threw back her head, and burst out 
in a ringing peal of laughter. 

It was now the doctor’s turn to be astonished. 

“What!” she exclaimed, as soon as she had mas- 
tered her merriment. “Oh! this is too good! So, 
you thought me the innocent little fly walking into 
the parlor of the voracious spider! Oh, doctor! 
doctor! I gave vou credit for more perspicacity. 
What! did you suppose that I did not understand 
what an unmitigated rascal he is?” 

“Really, my dear mademoiselle,” said the puzzled 
doctor, “my warning, I see, was superfluous, but I 
cannot comprehend ” 

“Of course you can’t,” she interrupted, gayly, 
“ and I am really greatly obliged for the evident 
interest you take in me. Seriously, at first I was 
innocent enough to believe him, because I made 
some money on the Turkish securities he recom- 
mended, but I have been convinced since that I owe 
him. no thanks for that. He made a mistake, that’s 
all. My dear doctor, I have understood his game 
for a long time past. The scamp wants to ruin me 
financially, in order to attain his own ends, to seize 
the — the — what do you call it?— moment.” 

“Propitious,” suggested the doctor. 


A PARISIAN BOMANGK 


119 


Exactly— propitious moment. But I see through 
him, and, although I continue to consult him from 
time to time, it is for the purpose of doing exactly 
the contrary to what he advises me.” She opened 
her memorandum-book, and extended it to the 
doctor. ‘‘For instance, he told me just now to hold 
on to my Finnish bonds. See what I have written. 
‘Sell this very day my Finnish bonds, and buy Bank 
of Sweden.’ And as for my mining stocks which 
he advised me to keep, ha! ha! ha! why, my 
dear doctor, it is many a long day since I sold 
them! I tell you that it is his purpose to ruin me ; 
he wants to have me in his power ; but, wait and 
see, doctor, I shall have him in mine some day or 
another. I ” 

She paused suddenly, as she caught sight of the 
gentleman in question who had just re-entered the 
room. In a second, however, she recovered her 
self-possession, and asked, coolly: 

“Isn’t it so, my little baron?” 

“What, my dear?” asked Chevrial. 

She gave him a quick glance from under her eye- 
lashes, and then, satisfied that he had heard noth- 
ing, she answered : 

“Nothing at all. Well, does your coat fit?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“Delighted to hear it! Au revoir, baron. Before 
I go to the races, I must see my agent, and tell him 
to be sure and not sell my Finnish bonds. Good- 
morning, doctor.” 


120 


A FABIJSIAN BOMAIf'OK 


‘‘But I will go with you, my dear young lady,” 
said the doctor, gallantly, “it you will permit me.” 

“Permit you? Proud and happy to have you. 
Many, many thanks for your kind advice, baron.” 

“But my commission, my dear Rosa,” said Chev- 
rial, advancing toward her. “ J ust one kiss, for my 
trouble!” 

“After the wedding, my dear baron,” she replied, 
laughingly eluding him. “After the wedding!” 

The baron watched her, with a half-smiling, half- 
sarcastic expression as she swept out of the room. 

“After the wedding!” he repeated to himself. 
“Bah! she wants a hotel. That’s the truth. She 
wants me to give her a little hotel. She’s a very 
clever woman, that, and then she knows how to 
take me. But I, too, know how to take her. I 
await the day of reckoning, and I defy her to pay 
her debts. I hold her! I hold her! It will be my 
turn to laugh some day, and he laughs best who 
laughs last!” 


A PAHISIAN komance. 


121 


CHAPTER IX. 

ALL LOST SAVE HONOB. 

It can well be imagined that Henri de Targy 
passed anything but a peaceful night, after the 
astonishing revelation, which, if he obeyed the 
dictates of honor and conscience, would plunge him, 
and his adored Marcelle with him, from affluence to 
the depths of poverty. Brought up as he had been, 
with no knowledge of either trade or profession, it 
was a terrible future to face, and one from which 
even the bravest man might well shrink. Terrible 
as it was, however, not once did he falter. His 
resolution was taken, and he determined to follow 
the thorny path where honor called him, to the 
bitter end. 

It was not for himself that he cared. In these 
days, a man of ordinary ability and energy can 
always make sufflcient to support himself. But 
how would his wife and mother, who had never 
known want in all their lives, and to whom luxuries 
had become necessities, endure an existence where, 
at the best, every sou would have to be looked 
after. 

Marcelle, however, was a source of the greatest 
comfort to him. Entirely forgetful of her own feel- 


122 


A FABISIAN BOMATfCK 


ings, she devoted herself to comforting him, and 
driving away his gloomy forebodings. After all, 
having her love, he was rich indeed, with a wealth 
that no mere gold could purchase, and it was with 
a heart, somewhat lightened of its load, that he set 
forth on the errand which was to impoverish him 
and add to the already overflowing coffers of the 
millionaire banker. 

He first went to the bank, but finding that^the 
baron had not yet made his appearance, he deter- 
mined to go to his house. He hailed a passing cab, 
but suddenly remembering his changed circum- 
stances, he determined to forego that luxury, ^and, 
making some excuse to the cabman, he proceeded 
on foot to the Fauborg Saint-Gerfhain. 

Ambroise, the baron's valet, who answered his 
ring, informed him that his master was very busy, 
and had given orders that he would receive no 
visitors ; but De Targy ordered the man to say to 
the baron that his businses was of a very serious 
nature, and he was at last admitted to the great 
man’s presence. He found Chevrial in the midst of 
his toilet. 

“I must apologize for disturbing you, baron,” he 
began, “but- — ” 

“My dear fellow, don’t mention it. I am en- 
chanted to see you,” interrupted the baron, shak- 
ing his hand, meanwhile wondering to himself, 
“What can he want to see me for? Business of a 
very important nature! Why didn’t he speak 


A PABISIAJY BOMAB'OM 


123 


about it last night. It looks as if he wanted to 
borrow some money. Well, I may possibly let him 
have it. His wife is very pretty!” 

Aloud he continued : 

But you must pardon me for finishing dressing 
before you. I was detained by a visit from charm- 
ing Rosa Guerin and that good Doctor Chesnel, and 
I am very late this morning; I should be at the 
bank now. Ah I you know nothing of the drudgery 
of business, you fortunate man of leisure. But, sit 
down. You will pardon me?” 

“Certainly,” replied Henri, constrainedly, taking 
a chair near the bureau. 

He was very ill at his ease, and he scarcely knew 
how to broach the important matter which had led 
him to seek the interview. The baron, however, 
put an end to his quandary by asking abruptly : 

“Well, what is this serious business, that has 
given me the pleasure of seeing you?” 

“Baron,” said Henri, gravely, “the matter I 
wished to speak to you about is of a peculiarly seri- 
ous and confidential nature.” 

“I knew it! He wants a loan,” thought the 
baron. 

He made no remark, however, but proceeded 
carefully to tie his cravat, leaving De Targy to con- 
tinue. 

“The matter is one of personal interest to Madame 
Chevrial.” At this the baron gave a little start of 


124 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


surprise. Then, picking up one of his silver- 
mounted brushes, he remarked, coldly : 

“My wife? Indeed! Go on!” This was easier 
said than done. De Targy was in a very difficult 
and delicate position, and he felt it to be so. But 
he mustered up his courage, and forced himself to 
proceed with his uncomfortable task. 

“It has seemed to me proper and even necessary,” 
he said, “to make my communication to you first. 
Baron Chevrial, a singular chain of circumstances 
has made me the guardian of a considerable sum of 
money, which was destined for Mademoiselle d’ Am- 
bleuse, who is now your wife, and which it is my 
duty to place in her hands.” The baron calmly 
continued to arrange his jet black locks. He was 
apparently unmoved by this statement, which was 
of so much interest to himself. 

“Where did this money come from?” he asked, 
after a pause. 

“It is a legacy.” 

“A legacy from whom?” 

The situation was becoming more and more diffi- 
cult. How could De Targy explain matters, with- 
out betraying his father’s untrustworthiness, not to 
speak of the reputation of Madame d’ Ambleuse, 
the mother of the baron’s wife? 

“Baron,” he said, desperately, “I declare that the 
money accruing from this legacy is due to Madame 
Chevrial ; I am ready to place it in her hands ; it 
seems to me that that should be sufficient, and, if 


A PAHmAN BOMAJ^CM 


125 


you are willing, I would prefer to enter into no 
explanation as to its origin or how it came into my 
possession.” 

The baron smiled sarcastically. 

“ My dear Monsieur de Targy,” he replied, ‘'you 
must see that such a thing is impossible. I cannot 
accept a gift for my wife, without knowing from 
whom it comes, and all the circumstances connected 
with it.” 

There could be no doubt of the truth of this, as 
De Targy, in spite of himself, was forced to ac- 
knowledge. There was but one thing to be done, 
therefore, and that was to tell the whole story, cost 
what it might. 

“You are right,” he said, with painful constraint, 
“ and I will obey your wishes. It was the Count de 
Fervieres, a friend of my father’s, who left him this 
money, charging him to pay it over to Mademoiselle 
d’ Ambleuse — after — after a certain delay.” 

“After a certain delay? You mean, I suppose, 
after Monsieur d’ Ambleuse’s death.” 

Henri bowed his head. 

“Yes. I thought so. And how much does this 
legacy amount to?” 

The baron’s utterance was as slow and calm as if 
he had been discussing the weather. But Henri’s 
hands were like ice, and there was a lump in his 
throat that seemed as if it were choking him. He 
made a desperate effort at self-control, however, 
and answered quietly enough : 


126 


A FABISIAN ROMANCE. 


“Two million, seven hundred thousand francs.” 

“Ah!” 

There was silence for a few moments, during 
which the baron contemplated himself in the glass. 

“And you have brought me this money?” he said, 
at last. 

“Pardon me, baron,” said Henri, his eyes fixed 
upon the carpet, “but I have a painful avowal to 
make to you.” 

“Ah!” was the icy response. 

“You may remember,” proceeded Henri, with 
constantly increasing embarrassment, “that, at the 
time Monsieur d’ Ambleuse died, my father was far 
from well, he became forgetful, and — 

He paused, overcome with emotion, and the 
shame of being compelled to confess his father’s 
wrong-doing. Baron Chevrial maintained a cold 
silence, until De Targy was enabled to continue. 

“ As far as I personally am concerned, for certain 
reasons which it would not interest you to know, I 
was in entire ignorance of my debt to you until 
very recently, last night in fact. I had always 
thought that this money belonged to me, and, of 
course, I used it as if it were my own.” 

“Of course.” 

“Lately, I was foolish enough to indulge in specu- 
lation, and ” 

“And you lost.” 

“I lost.” 

“Naturally,” retorted the baron, dryly. 


A PABISIAN BOMANCE. 


127 


But what I have left is enough, thank Heaven, 
to pay what I owe you.” 

As he spoke, Henri rose, produced a pocket-book, 
and, removing some papers, laid them upon the 
corner of the bureau. Now that the worst of the 
ordeal was over, he had quite recovered his self- 
possession. 

“These pape'i, monsieur,” he said, in his usual 
clear voice, “contain an exact account of my pres- 
ent fortune, including my mother’s dowry and that 
of my wife. You will see that, at a fair valuation, 
it represents just about the amount due you.” 

The baron drew on his coat, and flicked a bit of 
dust off the sleeve. Then, he answered, carelessly : 

“Very well, monsieur, I will examine the papers 
at my leisure. But, by the way ; without going into 
the details of this strange story, since you consider 
that useless, permit me to ask you one question. 
Don’t remain standing ; sit down, I beg. What was 
the exact date of the Count de Fervieres’ death?” 

Henri paused to consider a moment. 

“He died eight years ago this month,” he said. 

“And the legacy amounted, you tell me, to two 
million, seven hundred thousand francs?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“And you pay me the full amount to-day?” 

“I pay you two million, seven hundred thousand 
francs,” returned De Targy, somewhat astonished 
at these questions. 


128 


A PABISIAN ROMANCE. 


“Yes, yes,” said the baron, slowly, with a slight 
raise of the eyebrows, “but — the interest?” 

Henri flushed scarlet. 

“Monsieur,” he retorted, haughtily; “the interest 
belonged to my father, as executor of the will ; you 
will And the proof of what I say among those 
papers.” 

“Oh!” 

“ Besides, I give you all that I have. I can do no 
more.” 

“My dear Monsieur de Targy!” said the baron, 
laying his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, 
with an affectation of cordiality ; “ it was the man 
of business who spoke, but be sure that the man of 
the world fully appreciates the uprightness of your 
conduct.” 

Henri acknowledged the implied compliment, 
with a slight movement of the head, and said, 
calmly : 

“ I thought it right, baron, to address myself first 
to you, but I shall not consider my mission fully 
accomplished until Madame Chevrial is informed of 
what has happened.” 

The baron dropped his hand, frowned slightly, 
and seemed for a moment undecided how to answer. 

“Do you wish her to be informed immediately? 
In your presence?” 

Henri bowed. 

“Very well, as you please.” 

And he rang the bell, which was answered by 


A jPAHISIA^ BOMA^VM l20 

Ambroise, Whom he ordered to say to Madame 
Chevrial that he would esteem it a favor if she 
would favor him with her company for a few 
minutes. 

After the servant had departed on his errand, he 
said to De Targy : 

“We were married under the community system; 
hence, what belongs to one, belongs to the other. 
But, still, I appreciate your scruples. On reflection, 
however, there are in this affair, as regards my 
wife, certain delicate points, and your presence 
might, in the beginning, at all events, be embar- 
rassing to her. Would it be asking too much of 
you, if I requested you to go into the anteroom and 
leave me alone with my wife for a few moments? 

“ Certainly not, monsieur ; anything that will 
make it more agreeable for the baroness.” 

“ Thanks, monsieur. As soon as I have informed 
her of the main facts, I will ask you to return.” 

Henri bowed, and, conducted by his host, retired 
at once to the room beyond. 

As he disappeared from view and the door closed 
behind him, the baron’s demeanor underwent a 
complete change. His little eyes contracted in a 
look of intense satisfied cunning, his pinched feat- 
ures became convulsed with silent laughter, and he 
rubbed his thin, white hands caressingly, one over 
the other. 

“Faith!” bethought, “it is enough to make one 
die with laughter! I knew well that there was a 


130 


A PAJimA^^ ROMA.XCR 


skeleton in that house, and here it is! Old .man De 
Targy squandered the money left in his care. It 
was a devilish big temptation, I must confess. 
Now, the thing is to find out how my wife will take 
this matter. I don’t think, however, that she has 
many illusions in regard to the character of her 
late excellent mother.” 

His refiections were interrupted at this point by 
the entrance of the baroness herself. She had evi- 
dently been on the point of going out, as she was in 
street costume, with bonnet and gloves. As Chev- 
rial looked at her, he could not but acknowledge, 
although she had long since ceased to attract him, 
that she was a very beautiful woman. Her figure 
was graceful and willowy, her features clear-cut as 
those of a cameo, and there was an indescribable 
something in her every movement that bespoke 
race and breeding. 

As she entered the room, there was a certain look 
of surprise on her face. It was very rarely that her 
husband requested her presence. They lived as 
entirely separate lives as it is possible for two 
beings to do under the same roof. 

“You desired to speak to me?” she asked, quietly, 
in her low, clear voice. 

“Yes, my dear,” replied the baron, pushing for- 
ward a chair, and courteously motioning her to be 
seated. “I am sorry if I have disarranged your 
plans, but I have an interesting piece of news for 


A FAHI^JAJ^ FOMAA'CM 


131 


you. I received this morning a visit from Monsieur 
de Targy.” 

“Indeed! From Monsieur de Targy?” 

“He is still here, in the antechamber.” 

“What was the reason of his visit? Anything 
important.” 

“Important?” chuckled the baron. “Well, by 
Jove! I should think it was rather important, that 
is, for him. The fact is, the De Targys are ruined.” 

Armande Chevrial started to her feet, shocked 
and distressed beyond measure at this brusque 
announcement of a misfortune to people to whom 
she was warmly attached. 

“Ruined!” she exclaimed. “Is it possible?” 

“Not only possible, but a fact,” replied her hus- 
band, calmly, polishing his monocle and fitting it 
in his eye. 

“Ah!” said Armande, in a pitiful tone, her beau- 
tiful eyes suffused with tears. “ How sorry I am ! 
poor people! poor little woman that I am so fond of! 
But, good Heaven! how did it happen, so suddenly, 
too? Why, they could have known nothing about 
it last night.” 

The baron gazed curiously through his glass at 
the troubled face of his wife. What were these De 
Targys to her that she should take their financial 
disaster so to heart? How absurd to worry over 
evils which do not hurt one’s self. Women were 
odd creatures, anyhow, and his wife, the oddest of 
her species. 


A PAHmA^ BOMAIfCZ 


13 ^ 

“Sit down,” he said, shortly, “and I will tell you 
about it. As far as I have been able to understand 
the story, through the young man’s circumlocu- 
tions, his father some years ago received in trust a 
legacy, which he was charged to deliver some day 
to a certain person mentioned by the testator. 
Now, the elder De Targy squandered the money in 
one way or another. The son has only just been 
informed of this fact, by his mother, in all proba- 
bility, and he restores to-day the money at the ex- 
pense of his own fortune. It will take all that he 
is possessed of, in fact.” 

Madame Chevrial had listened eagerly to this 
recital, and as her husband finished, she exclaimed, 
her eyes shining with honest enthusiasm : 

“How noble of him!” 

The baron laughed a contemptuous, irritated 
laugh. 

“Yes, very noble of him,” he said, in a tone 
which gave the lie to his words. “And now, it 
only remains for me to tell you the name of the 
person to whom this legacy, which amounts to 
nearl}’- three millions, was left. Well, that person 
is you!” 

She stared at him in utter stupefaction ; she heard 
the words without at all taking in their meaning. 

“Don’t you hear me? The fortune was left to 
you,” reiterated the baron. 

“To me!” she murmured, in a dazed sort of way. 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


133 


“Yes, to you,” said the baron, snappishly. “The 
legacy was left to you.” 

Armande made no reply. There was a pause, 
during which a variety of expressions swept over 
her face, first amazement, then doubt, then horror, 
and finally absolute fright. At last, she rose to her 
feet, and turning upon her husband a face from 
which all color had fled, she asked in her low, tense 
tones : 

“ Who was it that left this money to me?” 

“Some one who was well-disposed toward you, of 
course,” replied the baron. “ But why do you care 
to know more? You understand nothing of busi- 
ness. All that concerns you is to be certain that 
this fortune belongs to you; and it very evidently 
does, since it is surrendered to you. People don’t 
as a rule strip themselves of everything and ruin 
themselves utterly, for the pleasure it gives them.” 

“Pardon me!” she persisted, in the same quiet, 
determined voice. “I insist upon knowing who left 
me this fortune!” 

“Oh! you insist, do you?” said Chevrial, dryly, 
with a twinkle of malicious enjoyment in his eye. 
“Very well, then, you shall know. It was an old 
friend of your family’s.” He paused a moment, 
while, with parted lips and quickened breath, his 
wife waited for his next words. “The Count de 
Fervieres!” 

As she heard this name, Armande uttered a cry 
of horror, Her worst fears were realized, 


134 


A FABISIATiT BOMAB'CK 


“The Count de Fervieres!” she exclaimed, pas- 
sionately. “ I refuse to accept it !” 

Magnificently beautiful she looked, as she stood 
with her figure drawn up to its fullest height, and 
her blue eyes ablaze with horrified indignation. 
Poor and insignificant looked the shriveled figure 
of the baron beside her. The two might have 
served as models for Venus, the goddess of beauty 
and her misshapen spouse. But his was the domi- 
nant spirit, as she had learned more than once to 
her cost. 

“What did you say?” he asked, in his softest, 
most insinuating tones. 

“I refuse to accept it!” 

“Indeed! And why, may I ask?” 

There was something in the manner in which he 
asked this simple question that arrested her atten- 
tion and struck terror to her heart. Surely he was 
not going to insist upon her taking this money, 
which seemed to her almost like the price of shame. 
She had long since lost all illusions in regard to her 
husband, if indeed she had ever had any. Almost 
from the very day of their marriage he had shocked 
her sensibilities and outraged her principles. She 
knew that, if his mind were made up, no entreaties 
of hers could move him one iota. But she deter- 
mined to make a desperate appeal. 

“I implore you,” she said, piteously, clasping her 
hands, “not to force me to take this money. Ido 
not wish it! I dp not wish it! We are rich I W^e 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 135 

do not need it. Why should we ruin those honest 
people? Why ” 

“My dear,” interrupted Chevrial, suavely, “one 
always needs three millions.” 

“Baron,” she entreated, “listen to me for just one 
moment! You know that since our marriage, I 
have not been very happy. I have more than one 
wrong, more than one cruel wrong to reproach you 
with ! W ell, I forget all from this moment, if only 
you will yield to me in this one thing.” 

Totally unmoved by the distress of the woman 
whom he had sworn before the altar to honor and 
protect, the baron calmly proceeded to light a 
cigarette, and then said with a coldness which had 
a touch of malignity in it : 

“At least, give me your reasons for not accepting 
what belongs to you.” 

“My reasons!” exclaimed Armande, in a voice 
quivering with agonized emotion. “ Do you know 
what you are making me suffer? No! you cannot 
know it! If you had the slightest suspicion of it, 
your conduct would be unpardonable. My reasons? 
My God! Must I tell them to you? Do you think, 
then, that a woman who goes into society, as I do, 
who has her friends, her enemies, never hears any- 
thing of the past? that she does not finally know all 
that they say in Paris, all that they say both aloud 
and in whispers of her family, of her father, of her 
mother, of her mother, especially?” 

And the poor woman, unable longer to bear the 


136 


A PAJilS/Ay JWJIAM^M 


strain upon her nerves, buried her face in her 
hands and burst into a passionate flood of tears. 

“No!” she sobbed. “No! I do not wish this for- 
tune! I do not wish it ! Have mercy upon me!” 

The baron blew a long whiff of smoke from his 
cigarette. 

“My dear,” he said, “this is really very bad form. 
I cannot understand such absurd sentimentality. 
It was my duty to inform you of the good fortune 
that has come to you, and I have done so. You 
refuse; so far, so good! But I, as head of the 
family, accept.” 

As he finished speaking, he turned to the table, 
and touched the bell. 

Armande knew that she had lost, and that it was 
useless to struggle further. Stung to the quick, her 
pride came to her aid, and she stifled her sobs and 
dried her wet eyes. 

“ Tell Monsieur de Targy that he may return, that 
I am at his disposal,” said the baron to Ambroise, 
who had answered his summons. 

The baroness moved toward the other door, in- 
tending to escape before De Targy should enter. 

“One moment,” said the baron, going to her side, 
and speaking in a low voice. “ I request you to re- 
main, and remember that it is your duty to obey 
your husband.” 

She turn#^d upon him a face as white and set as 
that of a statue, save for the eyes which glittered 
with unspeakable contempt. 


A PAJiISIA^'' ROMANCE. 


137 


‘‘It is well,” she said, icily. “You need have no 
fear.” 

When Henri entered, a moment later, he found 
husband and wife standing quietly together near 
the table. He bowed low to Madame Chevrial who 
returned his salute and then there was an em- 
barrassing silence. 

Finally, in obedience to a sign from her husband, 
Armande said in low, but perfectly distinct tones : 

“Monsieur, my husband has informed me of the 
misfortune which has overtaken you, and of which 
I am, to my bitter regret, the involuntary cause. 
It appears that I cannot, or rather that I must not 
refuse this money which you offer me. I accept it, 
therefore, but only because forced to do so by— by 
my duty. I shall always be grateful to you, mon- 
sieur, not for this fortune which I owe to you, but 
for the example of heroic honesty you have given 
me. There is no person in the world, there is no 
woman especially,” and here her voice shook a 
little, in spite of herself, “who does not need at 
times the strengthening power of such an example ; 
in the midst of so many unworthy actions of which 
one is every day the witness, it is well +o be able to 
say, ‘There are still some honest people after all!’ 
It helps one to go on. Say to your mother, mon- 
sieur, that I shall endeavor to be a second daughter 
to her.” 

She extended her hand, and Henri, who had a 
pretty shrewd idea of how matters stood, raised it 


138 


A PAlilSIAN BOMANCE, 


reverently to his lips. In another moment, she was 
gone. 

Chevrial breathed an inward sigh of relief. The 
affair had passed off better than he had hoped. 

“You see, my dear monsieur,” he said, blithely, 
“ that my wife appreciates, as I do, the uprightness 
of your conduct. Now, let us return to business. 
You understood, of course; that I must first ex- 
amine those papers. To do that, I shall require 
three or four days. But seriously, according to your 
calculations, how much will you have left, after 
our accounts are adjusted?” 

“I have told you already — nothing.” 

Chevrial raised his eyebrows. 

“The devil! Is that really so? How will you 
live?” 

“I do not know. I have scarcely had time to 
think of that yet. I shall have great difficulty, 
probably in finding anything to do, for unfortunately 
I have no knowledge of any sort of business. But, 
we shall see!” 

“Do you know English or German?” asked the 
baron, after a moment’s pause. 

“I know English.” 

“Well, then, while you are waiting for something 
better to turn up, will you accept a situation in my 
bank, which would be modest to begin with, of 
course?” 

Henri’s first impulse was to refuse; the offer 
struck him, taking all things into consideration, 


A P^i276’L4iV' HOMANCK 


139 


almost as an insult. But a moment’s reflection 
showed him that here was an opportunity, which 
might be a long time in presenting itself again, and 
that, in justice to his family, he ought to embrace 
it. So he answered, as politely as he could : 

“Certainly, monsieur, I will accept any honorable 
situation which will permit me to gain my bread.” 

“Very well, then, that is understood. I will place 
you for the time being in charge of the corre- 
spondence.” 

“I am deeply obliged,” said Henri, moving 
toward the door. 

“ Au re voir, my dear monsieur.” 

“ Au revoir, monsieur.” 

“ Pray, present my compliments to the ladies of 
your family.” 

It was long after his usual hour when Baron 
Chevrial reached his office, but he did not feel that 
his morning had been lost. In the first place, his 
interview with Rosa had been highly satisfactory. 
If she followed his advice, as she undoubtedly 
would, her financial ruin was a matter of the near 
future, and then he had but to spread his net to 
capture the pretty bird. Then, this three millions, 
which had so unexpectedly fallen into his lap, was 
not a morsel to be despised. And, finally, with De 
Targy in his office, and dependent upon him for his 
bread and butter, he would have a hold upon the 
young wife ; and she was certainly very pretty, as 
ho thought, with a complacent smile, 


140 


A FAHmAJV^ BOMAAVK 


It was an article of the worthy baron’s creed, 
that poverty, sooner or later, is forced to sell itself, 
and alas ! for poor human nature, it was an article 
that was based to a large degree upon truth. 

No, from his point of view, his morning had cer» 
tainly not been lost. 


A PAntStAN iiOMANGR 


141 


CHAPTER X. 

THE LITTLE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE. 

Henri de Tarpry had been six months in Baron 
ChevriaPs employ. Despite the doubts and hesita- 
tions with which he had accepted the position, he 
found it to be not quite so unpleasant as he had 
feared. The salary, to be sure, was a small one, 
but then the duties were light, and he was treated 
by the officials of the bank with unvarying civility. 
Chevrial himself was outwardly courteous enough, 
but it was not in his nature to refrain from assert- 
ing his authority, and there were times when Henri 
chafed sorely under his bondage. Nevertheless, he 
performed his duties well, and the baron was fully 
aware of the fact. Although not always so correct 
in his estimate of women as he imagined himself 
to be, Chevrial was an excellent judge of men. 
Like many another, whose business methods are 
not above suspicion, he insisted upon an irreproach- 
able honesty and uprightness among his subordi- 
nates ; they must be men whom he could trust, and 
he had every confidence in De Targy’s integrity, as 
indeed he had reason to have. So, outside of any 
ulterior motive, he was glad enough to have him in 
his employ. 


142 


A PARISIAN ROMANOR. 


Henri had tried to add something to his slender 
income by his pen, but he found that, as is the case 
in all branches of art, there was a vast difference 
between the amateur and the professional. The 
honeyed words of praise from friends, to whom he 
had presented the pretty little blue and gold bound 
volume of his poems, printed at his own expense, 
were one thing, but the cold, hard judgment of the 
publisher, who was looking simply for what would 
sell, was another. Then, too, poetry is a drug in 
the market, and if Shakespeare spells ruin for a 
theatrical manager, so do poems by an unknown 
author, for a publishing house. 

The superb apartment in the Avenue de T Alma 
had, of course, at once been given up, and the little 
family were now installed in a tiny unpretentious 
flat in a respectable, though thoroughly unfashion- 
able street. The servants had been dismissed, all 
except Maria, who, faithful girl that she was, in- 
sisted upon remaining to share the reduced fortunes 
of her mistress, declaring that she did not like 
change, and that she was used to the family. 

There was at least one member of the household 
who was vastly happier in poverty than she had 
been in the midst of affluence. 

Madame de Targy, relieved from the terrible 
burden she had borne so long, recovered her natural 
cheerfulness, and seemed to grow younger day by 
day. She was an admirable pianist, and had found 
no difficulty in procuring several pupils, thus being 


A PAJilSlA^^ P0MA:^CM 143 

enabled to contribute her share toward the ex- 
pense. 

Henri also looked on the bright side of things. 
He had never cared for society, and he was de- 
lighted to live the quiet, domestic life which had 
been impossible in the Avenue de V Alma. 

But to Marcelle, the change was a terrible one. 
At first, poor child, she had earnestly tried to do her 
duty in the changed state of affairs, and had been 
brave and patient. But, as the novelty wore off, 
gradually her acquaintances ceased to come and 
see her, and she felt that she was ostracized from 
that gay world, of which she had seen just enough 
to give her a taste for more, she grew more and 
more discontented, more and more embittered. She 
was not one of those whose characters are strength- 
ened and beautified by the trials of adversity, and 
the petty little economies she was now obliged to 
practice fretted and irritated her. There were two 
people, moreover, who, in a different way, con- 
tributed not a little to her discontent — Baron Chev- 
rial and the tenor, Juliani. 

The baron was a more or less frequent visitor, 
and he almost invariably timed his calls when 
Madame de Targy was away at her music-lessons, 
and the young wife was alone. Marcelle had al- 
ways disliked him, and her feeling of repulsion 
was now intensified. She could not but see that the 
baron spoke to her with much more freedom than 
formerly ; her innate purity revolted at the undis- 


144 


A PAJilJSIAJi POMAJf^Cl!. 


^uised admiration he expressed. As their very 
bread and butter depended upon his ejood will, she 
was powerless to resent his half-vailed innuendoes, 
and it was with a feeling of disgust and anger that 
she recognized this fact. 

Juliani, too, came frequently to see her. His 
admiration for her voice had been genuine, he 
really believed that she would be a success upon 
the operatic stage, and to induce her to join him in 
his coming American tour did not seem as impossi- 
ble now as formerly. He played his cards very 
skillfully, painted to her in the most brilliant colors 
the triumphs she was sure to secure, the delights of 
being the idol of the public, and the showers of 
golden ducats that would be poured into her lap. 

Marcelle had at first laughed at him ; she knew 
that Henri would never consent, and the whole idea 
seemed to her chimerical. But, little by little, she 
became fascinated by the glittering prospect. Why 
should she not make use of the talents that Heaven 
had given her? Why should she not raise the 
family out of the depths into which they had been 
plunged? It was ungenerous of Henri to be so 
stubborn, it was unkind, cruel! Over and over, she 
pictured to herself the charm of such a life, the joy 
of being delivered from this dull, monotonous exist- 
ence she was forced to endure, and she ended, so 
dangerous is it to live upon the imagination, by 
becoming completely converted to Signor Juliani^s 
views. Her aunt, whom she made her confidante, 


A TARIHIAI^ HOMAl^CB, 


145 


foolishly encouraged her, and declared that it was 
an outrage for Henri to refuse his consent, and 
keep her chained down to a monotonous routine of 
household duties. 

Madame Charteris was perhaps not wholly un- 
selfish in speaking as she did. The De Targy’s loss 
of fortune had been a severe blow to her, as she 
could no longer bask in their refiected radiance, 
and she was in constant fear that she might be 
called upon to aid them from her own, by no means 
large income. It was a rather pleasant idea to her 
to think of her niece as a great prima donna, rich 
and/e^e^7, and it seemed to her an admirable solu- 
tion of the dilemma. Aunt Reine was by no means 
a bad woman, but she was a thoroughly self-indul- 
gent one. 

From a gay, charming, loving girl, Marcelle be- 
came, little by little, moody and reserved. It was 
by no means that she had ceased to love her hus- 
band, but he was unfortunately no longer the Prince 
Charming who could give her the luxuries of this 
life, which she so dearly loved. Henri, of course, 
had seen the change, and it cut him to the heart ; 
but he had every confidence in his wife, and he felt 
sure that in time she would feel his devotion and 
loving care to be a compensation for all she had 
lost. 

Such was the state of affairs, when, one after- 
noon, as Madame de Targy sat. engaged in some 
needle work, in the simple room, which served at 


146 


A PARISIAN ROMANCR 


once as salon and dining-room, Doctor Chesnel was 
announced. 

The doctor entered in his bright, cheerful way, 
that seemed to bring a flood of sunshine into the 
apartment. The good man had been unremitting 
in his attentions to his old friends in their disaster, 
and he had done for them all that he could do, 
without offending their pride. 

“Ah! what a pleasant surprise!” exclaimed 
Madame de Targy, stretching out her hand, with a 
bright smile of welcome. 

As the doctor took the proffered hand in his and 
looked into the fine face, with its crown of snow- 
white hair, he thought that never in her young 
days had she looked handsomer than she did now. 

“Well! how is everything?” he said. “Do you 
want to go to Asnieres.” 

“To Asnieres!” exclaimed Madame de Targy, 
laughing. “Why should I go to Asnieres.” 

“Because I am going there myself. I have a 
patient there. So I said to myself, ‘On my way to 
the station, I will stop and see my friends in the 
Rue de Rome. The weather is delightful— a real 
spring day. I will take them into the country with 
me. They will enjoy it.’ And then, at the same 
time, I can show you the cottage I have purchased 
there. It is a little gem.” 

Madame de Targy shook her head. 

“The prospect is very tempting, my dear doctor,” 
she said, “but it is simply impossible. My son is at 


A PAHISIAK POMAyCK 


li7 


his office, and I have two lessons to give between 
three and five.” 

“Just my luck!” cried the doctor, evidently 
greatly disappointed. “ Well, it cannot be helped, 
I suppose. But you must go with me some Sunday 
to see my cottage, and I hope that you will be able 
to spend several weeks there this summer.” 

“With all my heart, my friend, if we can arrange 
it,” replied Madame de Targy. 

“ That is good. I shall hold you to your promise. 
Do you know,” he continued, glancing about the 
room, “ this little apartment of yours is really de- 
lightful. I like it a hundred times better than those 
great glittering rooms in the Avenue de T Alma.” 

Madame de Targy glanced up at him with a look 
full of content. 

“So do I!” she replied. “Is it not pleasant? We 
are really very comfortable.” 

The doctor nodded his head, and then bending 
his eyes upon her scrutinizingly, he asked in a seri- 
ous tone: 

“Tell me, how is everything going with you?” 

“With me?” she answered, brightly. “Marvel- 
ously well. I am really happy. After having car- 
ried so long that frightful secret, which you alone 
suspected, my good doctor, I feel as if I had been 
relieved from the weight of a mountain ; and then I 
am so proud of my son’s conduct, of his heroic 
courage. Yes, indeed, I am really happy. I feel 
as if I were about tw^enty years old! when I go to 


148 


A FAHISIAJ^ FOMA^VF. 


give my piano lessons, I walk along the streets with 
a step as light as a young girl’s.” 

“You dear woman!” exclaimed the doctor, enthu- 
siastically, filled with admiration for her bravery. 
“And Henri?” 

“In capital spirits. Never complains of the little 
privations we have to undergo. Always bright, 
and with never a regret that he was strong enough 
to do his duty.” 

“By the way, how much does Chevrial give him?” 

“Five thousand francs.” 

The doctor raised his eyebrows. 

“ Humph ! That won’t ruin him!” 

“No; but still we are very glad to make even that 
so soon. You must remember that Henri never 
had any business training whatever. With what I 
make by my lessons, we have nearly seven thou- 
sand francs, and we can live on that.” 

“Yes, I suppose you can, after a fashion. And 
what does your pretty daughter-in-law say?” 

Madame de Targy dropped her work in her lap, 
and a troubled expression stole into her eyes. 

“Marcelle?” she said, with a sigh. “Ah! that is 
the dark spot. She suffers, she suffers greatly in 
this new life of ours. In the beginning she was 
filled with enthusiasm, she saw only the romantic 
side of our disaster, she almost enjoyed it; but 
when it came to the practical side of it, when it 
became necessary to go to the butcher’s and the 
grocer’s, to tramp through the muddy streets, to 


A FAHIjSIAJ^ BOMA^^'CI!:. U9 

ride in omnibuses, and especially to wear old 
dresses and last year’s hats, well, then her courage 
failed her a little. She could have gone without 
bread with a smiling face, but to have no fresh 
gloves was a trial beyond her strength. And I do 
not blame her. It is natural enough at her age, 
poor little girl.” 

‘‘Her age has nothing to do with it,” said the 
doctor, somewhat gruffly. “It is the fault of the 
ridiculous education we give our girls, which 
teaches them to rank outside show above inner 
worth. When troubles come upon them and luxu- 
ries fail them, then everything fails them. They 
have no stamina, no bravery, no anything.” 

Madame de Targy’s face was very sad,..as she re- 
plied : 

“However that may be, I know that Marcelle has 
many a struggle with herself. At times she is un- 
selfish and self-reliant, and then come the moments 
of weakness. I am sadly afraid that she hides more 
than she allows us to see. Her temper of late is 
very uncertain. But, in spite of all, I know that 
her heart is good, and I do not despair.” 

Whatever the doctor’s private opinion might be, 
he did not care to trouble the good lady by any 
dismal forebodings, so he answered energetically : 

“And you are right. Everything will be well in 
the end.” Then, after a pause, he added, “I need 
not repeat to you, that you will do me the greatest 
unkindness, if you chance at any time to be pecu- 


150 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE 


niarilj embarrassed and do not appeal to me. I am 
idiotically rich, and don’t know what to do with my 
money.” 

“Thank you, my old friend.” 

The words were few, but the tone in which they 
were spoken said much, and the doctor was satis- 
fied. He raised the slender white hand to his lips, 
and still retaining it in his, said, with considerable 
emotion : 

“You know how fond I am of you and how long I 
have known you. Perhaps you may deign to re- 
member that it rested with you to marry me.” 

Like a flash, Madame de Targy’s thoughts flew 
back, over the long years, to the time when they 
were both young and she had been very near loving 
this sturdy old man who now stood before her, and 
whose friendship for her, in spite of all, had never 
once faltered. A faint flush tinged her still fair 
face, and she gently withdrew her hand. 

“I remember it perfectly, my friend,” she said, 
softly. 

“But I was not gentleman enough for you!” 

Madame de Targy raised her hand deprecatingly. 

“You know well, my dear doctor,” she said, 
warmly, “that it was not that which separated us.” 

“And what was it, then? I had talent and there 
was a future before me. I was not bad looking ; on 
the contrary, I was even handsome.” 

Madam© de Targy smilingly contemplated the 


151 


A JWMANCJS: 

ruddy face with its flashing dark eyes, and iron- 
gray hair and mustache. 

“You are so still,” she replied. 

The doctor was secretly elated at the compliment, 
but he would not for the world have allowed it. So, 
he exclaimed, with an assumption of indignation: 

“Oh! yes, I remember what separated us. It was 
your fanaticism, for at that time, unfortunately, 
you were already a bigot.” 

“And you an atheist— unfortunately,” was the 
quiet reply. 

“An atheist! An atheist! That is for all the 
world like a woman! When one does not absolutely 
share their particular belief, one is an atheist! 
But, I am no more an atheist than you are, my dear 
lady ! I deny nothing. I do not know, that’s all. 

I wish I was certain, with all my heart. I would 
like nothing better. However, atheist or not, am I 
not an honest man?” 

The doctor had become quite excited during this 
little tirade, and any one who did not know him, 
would have thought that he was furious. But, 
Madame de Targy was used to his outbursts, and 
thoroughly understood them. She knew that there 
was no kinder, truer heart than that which beat 
beneath her old friend’s waistcoat, and it was with 
genuine sincerity that she replied : 

“An honest man ! Indeed you are. No on© could 
deny that.” 

“Well,” said the doctor, quieting down, “perhaps 


152 


A FAHIJSIAN JROJfAJUCi: 


we understand one another after all. For it is not 
through the brain that honest people recognize 
each other, but through the heart. From the heart 
comes what you call charity and what I call toler- 
ance. Under a different name it is the same thing, 
the same virtue. And, whether it comes from a 
skeptical heart like mine or a believing heart like 
yours, it is a divine virtue.” 

“I am entirely of your opinion,” retorted Madame 
de Targy, with a smile. 

For a moment, they gazed into each other’s eyes, 
and the vail of the years seemed to be lifted, and 
they were both young again. It was only for a 
moment, however, and then the vision was dis- 
persed, and this idyl of middle age was broken in 
upon by the entrance of Marcelle. 

She had on her hat and gloves, and in her plain, 
gray walking dress, she looked very pretty, in spite 
of the discontented look, which of late had become 
her habitual expression. 

“Ah! Madame Marcelle!” exclaimed the doctor, 
awakened to the fact that he was past sixty, and 
the days of sentiment were for him long gone by. 

“Why are you here, doctor?” said Marcelle, 
cordially, for she was very fond of the doctor. 

“Are you going out, Marcelle,” asked Madame de 
Targy. 

“JSTo. I have just come in. I had some errands 
to do, and I went out by the back way.” 


A FAJilblAIi JiOJfAI^OK 


153 


‘^Oh!” said the doctor. ^Have you two en- 
trances?” 

“Yes, there is a little staircase, opening into the 
park.” 

“That is a good thing for lovers to know,” 
laughed the doctor. 

“Very well,” said Marcelle, gayly. “You are 
forewarned. Don’t forget it.” 

“Not I! Heavens!” looking at his watch. “It 
is after two. 1 shall lose my train, if I don’t take 
care. My patient may take advantage of my ab- 
sence and get well. I must hurry. Good-by!” 

But he was destined to be detained a little longer, 
for, as he reached the door, he nearly ran into De 
Targy, who came hurrying into the room. 

“Henri!” exclaimed Marcelle, in surprise. 

“At this hour!” said Madame de Targy, rising. 

“I have only just time to shake your hand, my 
dear boy,” said the doctor, putting his words into 
action. I am in a hurry to catch a train. How do 
you do, and good-by!” and he hurried away. 

“ How do you happen to be home in the middle of 
the day?” asked Madame de Targy of Henri, as the 
doctor disappeared. 

“I had an errand with a broker in the Rue Auber, 
and I thought to myself, T am only two steps from 
the Rue de Rome ; why should I not go there and 
embrace my mother.” 

“Embrace your mother!” laughed Madame de 


154 


A FAHmAy FOJfAyOK 


Targy, kissing him affectionately. “I am afraid 
that is one word for me and two for your wife.” 

“My wife, of course,” returned Henri, turning to 
Marcelle, who submitted passively to his caress. 

Madame de Targy returned to her needle-work, 
Marcelle, after removing her hat and gloves, threw 
herself down upon the sofa, and Henri seated him- 
self upon the ottoman between them. He was a 
little chilled by Marcelle’s manner. When we love, 
our vulnerable points are multiplied, and he had 
been more than once wounded of late by the cold- 
ness and apparent indifference of the woman whom 
he loved with all the strength of his honest heart. 

“How does the baron continue to treat you?” 
asked Madame de Targy. 

“ Oh ! politely enough. He has not much senti- 
ment, but he is always courteous to me.” 

“And his wife?” 

“His wife? Oh! I see her very rarely. You 
know what a sweet-tempered woman she is. I 
believe she was born to be a sister of charity.” 

Marcelle frowned. She was well aware of her 
own shortcomings, and somehow she did not like to 
hear another woman praised by her husband for 
qualities that she was aware were lacking, or at all 
events, dormant in herself. If Henri had only 
known it, he held the whole game in his own 
hands. If he had given Marcelle apparent cause 
for jealousy, she would soon have forgotten, in a 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


155 


real trouble, the little every-day annoyances which 
were so irritating to her. 

“Yes,” said Madame de Targy, thoughtfully, “I 
fancy that she has registered a vow to expiate, by 
her own goodness and^ virtue, the faults of her 
mother. If so, it is not a case without precedent.” 

“As I say, I see her very little,” said Henri, “but 
when her husband happens to send me to his house 
on some matter of busines, she looks at me with 
tender, sympathetic eyes, as if to say, ‘You poor 
fellow! Are you very unhappy?’ And I long to 
answer, ‘No, indeed, I am not unhappy at all. I 
have experienced the pleasures of wealth, and I 
know now the joys of poverty ; for poverty has its 
joys. They are rare, but the rarer they are, the 
sweeter they are. When I was rich, I was like 
those spoiled children, who are loaded down with 
cakes, sweetmeats, and toys, and who end by taking 
no pleasure in anything. Now, I am like a pooi^ 
child, who has only two or three little playthings 
in his attic chamber, but how he values them! 
What care he takes of them ! How he loves them !” 

“My brave boy !” murmured Madame de Targy, 
bending over her work to hide her emotion. 

Henri turned to Marcelle, who had listened to his 
words, with her eyes fixed indifferently upon 
vacancy. 

“And you, Marcelle?” he said, gently. “Do you 
think that I talk nonsense?” 


156 


A PABJSIAJf HOJfAJ^OK 


“Oh! not at all,” she replied coldly, without look- 
ing at him. 

“I am afraid, my dear,” continued Henri, a little 
sadly, “ that you do not look forward with the same 
impatience that I do to that hour in the evening 
when we shall all be united about our fireside. 
Our home is more humble, more confined than it 
once was, but it brings us closer together on that 
very account. When I see, as I turn the corner of 
the street, our light burning here, high up near the 
stars, my heart beats with rapture and delight.” 

Marcelle made a movement of impatience. 

“Very poetical,” she said, with a slight sneer. 
“We ought to buy a game of lotto. If we played 
lotto in the evening, there would be nothing left to 
complete our happiness.” 

Henri started to his feet, pained and just a little 
angered. 

“You have no right to speak in that way, Mar- 
celle,” he said. “You promised to be brave, but you 
are not so.” 

Marcello’s eyes flashed a little, as she responded, 
sharply : 

“ It is unspeakably irritating, Henri, to see you so 
charmed, so delighted with our poverty, that you 
obstinately refuse to take advantage of the simplest 
and most legitimate means to better our condition.” 

De Targy was silent for a moment, and then he 
asked, dryly: 

“What means?” 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


157 


All Marcelle’s indifference had vanished as if by 
ma^ic, and her face and voice were full of anima- 
tion, as she answered : 

“ What means ! Why, since I have a voice and a 
little talent, why not profit by it? Why should I 
not give lessons? You make no objections to 
mother giving them! Why should I not sing in 
concerts or at private parties, if your objections to 
the stage are invincible.” 

“Absolutely invincible!” retorted Henri, firmly. 
“ [t is an absurd idea for a girl of your age to think 
of giving lessons! And as for singing in concerts, 
you might just as well go on the stage at once. 
What makes you so persistent in that idea?” 

Marcelle made no reply. 

“Ah! I know. It is that miserable Juliani! I 
know that he persists in coming here, although he 
has no business to do so. If I ever meet him here, 
I will tell him squarely what I think.” 

“He will know how to answer you!” was the 
quick, angry retort. 

A few months before, she would have bitten her 
tongue out, before she would have made such a 
speech ; but she was nervous and unstrung, and the 
words slipped out before she thought. 

Henri turned white as death, and Madame de 
Targy, dropping her work, started to her feet with 
a cry of indignation. But, before either of them 
could speak, Marcelle, who had instantly realized 
the enormity of what she had said, stretched out 


158 


A PAHISIAJ^ JiOMA^''OK 


her arms imploringly, her eyes filled with tears, and 
her cheeks flushed with shame. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, piteously. “Forgive me, 
mother! Forgive me, Henri! I was wrong, horri- 
bly wrong! I will never receive Juliani again, I 
promise you. Besides, he is going away very soon, 
in a few days, I think. What I said was outrage- 
ous, I know, but you must have pity upon me, I am 
so unhappy at times, so worried, so troubled! We 
ought to have left Paris. Anywhere else, I should 
have suffered less. I should have been less morti- 
fied — less humiliated ” 

She stopped, her voice choked with emotion. She 
was sincere in her regret, but mingled with it was 
something of pity for what she considered her own 
forlorn condition. 

Henri’s eyes softened, as they rested upon the 
lovely tear-bedewed face. She was but a child after 
all, a beautiful, spoiled child. 

“There, there, my dear,” said Madame de Targy, 
soothingly. “Don’t distress yourself. We under- 
stand.” 

“And then,” proceeded Marcelle, with a half sob, 
“I assure you, I assure you, Henri dear, I am 
ashamed to see you both work so hard, while I 
alone am useless.” 

“Useless, my dear little girl!” he replied, tenderly. 
“Why, without you what would become of us? We 
should have but the bare necessities of life. You 
are our luxury.” 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE, 


169 


As he spoke, he stretched out his arms to her, and 
with a low cry she threw herself into them, and 
buried her head in his breast. 

After Henri had returned to his oflSce and Madame 
de Targy had gone out to her lessons, Marcelle sat 
down to the little upright piano in a much happier 
mood than she had been for weeks. As her hands 
strayed over the keys, she thought to herself: 
After all, as long as she had Henri and his love, 
what mattered the rest? With a little pang, she 
remembered his words of praise of Armande Chev- 
rial. Yes, the baroness was a better, nobler woman 
than she was. She recalled a conversation she had 
with her a few days before. Madame Chevrial had 
come to invite her to drive in the Bois, but she had 
refused rather curtly. 

“But why?” asked Armande. “It is a beautiful 
day. It will do you good.” 

“I should not do you honor with my shabby 
dress.” 

“ What nonsense! You look charming.” 

Then, with one of those quick revulsions which 
were characteristic of her, Marcelle had exclaimed 
impulsively : 

“Pardon me, dear Armande, for refusing you so 
shortly as I did just now. I am becoming more and 
more ill-tempered every day. The hardest thing of 
all, when one is unhappy, is to feel that one is be- 
coming disagreeable at the same time. It is so easy 
to be pleasant when one is happy — so easy!” 


160 


A FAHISIaN nOMANCK 


‘‘My dear child,” Madame Chevrial had answered, 
kindly, “I know that you have many privations, 
many troubles, but forgive me if I remind you that 
you have also great compensations. When a woman 
is the daughter of a good mother and the wife of an 
honest man, she ought never to say that she is un- 
happy.” 

Yes, Madame Chevrial was right. She had great 
compensations, and she would strive to remember 
them and put aside her troubles, which were but 
trifles in comparison after all. She would be brave! 
She would be happy, and make those who loved her 
and whom she loved, happy too! 

Her reflections were interrupted by the ringing of 
the door-bell and the entrance of Maria, who asked 
if she were at home to visitors. 

“Oh, yes,” she replied, indifferently. 

A moment afterward she saw before her the dark 
smiling face of Signor Juliani. It was with diffi- 
culty that she repressed a display of annoyance. 
She had promised her husband not to receive this 
man, and, within half an hour, here he was. How- 
ever, he had been admitted, and it was too late 
now. She could not be rude to him, but how she 
wished she had known in time who her visitor was. 

“Sit down, Signor Juliani,” she said, forcing a 
smile. “ I did not expect to have the pleasure of 
seeing you again before your departure.” 

The tenor drew a chair close to the piano. 

“Ho?” he said, interrogatively. “But I do not 


A PAlilSlAN HOMAKCM. 


161 


leave Until day after to-morrow, Saturday. My 
preparations are all made, everybody is ready, and 
as I had a few minutes to spare this afternoon, I 
thought I could not occupy them better than in 
coming to say farewell to my best, my most chatm* 
ing pupil.” 

“It is exceedingly kind of you.” 

Juliani glanced at her sharply from under his 
brows. What had happened? She had not been 
wont to receive him so coldly. 

“To tell you the truth,” he said, softly, fixing his 
lustrous black eyes upon her, and watching every 
change of expression, “my visit, I confess, is not en- 
tirely disinterested. I have not yet lost all hope ” 

“What folly!” interrupted Marcelle, seeking in 
her mind for some excuse to put an end to the 
interview. Although it was not her fault that she 
had been forced to receive him, her conscience re- 
proached her somewhat. 

“For,” continued Juliani, calmly, “the more I 
have thought of it, the less I understand your ob- 
stinate refusal to grasp the fortune which lies 
within your reach. If you will permit me to say so, 
your obstinacy seems so unreasonable that I do not 
yet despair of conquering it.” 

“Even if you should succeed in conquering my 
obstinacy, as you call it, that would not be suffi- 
cient. You would have to convert my husband, 
which would be still more impossible.” 


162 


A PABmiAN BOMANCK 


Juliani was silent a moment, and then he said, 
with some hesitation : 

“ I am fully aware, madam, that I am touching 
upon a delicate subject, but there has been a change 
in your financial condition. You make no mystery 
of it, and ” 

“No, it would be difficult to do that!” interrupted 
Marcelle, bitterly, with a glance about the small, 
simply furnished room. 

Poor Marcelle! Her new-formed resolutions were 
rapidly melting away. 

The quick-witted tenor was not slow to catch the 
ring of discontent in her voice, and he continued, 
drawing his chair a little closer, and speaking with 
great animation : 

“You bear your misfortunes with all the courage 
and all the dignity in the world — and yet it is im- 
possible that you do not suffer from them both on 
your own account and on the account of those who 
are dear to you. Now, you have been endowed 
with talents, which you have cultivated, which in a 
very short space of time could return to you a great 
part, if not all of what you have lost, and you refuse 
to utilize them! Really, it is incredible! It is 
culpable!” 

His piercing, brilliant eyes were still fixed upon 
her, and Marcelle, like a bird beneath the gaze of a 
snake, felt fascinated. What he said was so true! 

“But,” she began, hesitatingly, “in the first place, 
it is very easy to talk of my talents, but who knows 


A PAIiI^)IA2i POMAKCK 


163 


if I should succeed on the stage? How many voices 
are there which produce more or less effect in a 
drawing-room, and yet absolutely fail in a theater!” 

“But your voice is most essentially a voice for the 
stage,” replied Juliani, eagerly. “You must ac- 
knowledge that I know a little of what I am speak- 
ing. Should I have proposed to you the terms that 
I took the liberty to submit to you, if I had not the 
most absolute confidence in your success? Your 
success? Why, it would be without precedent. We 
should set America on fire with enthusiasm! Think 
of it! A songstress who has never been heard in 
Europe, and who gives the first fruits of her talents 
to the Americans! You know their jealous patriot- 
ism. Why, they will adopt you with acclamation. 
You will be for them a national star. They will 
carry you in triumph from one pole to the other, 
from Quebec to New York, from New York to Hew 
Orleans, Mexico, Rio de Janeiro! For as I have 
already told you, I intend to go to North, South, 
and Central America ; my route is all laid out and 
my engagements made everywhere. It will only 
take a year, and at the end of that time, if there is 
anything certain in this world, you will return to 
France with your million in your pocket, and offer 
it to your husband, who will be enchanted.” 

Juliani paused, and Marcelle, who had been 
listening in rapt attention, sighed, as one awaking 
from a dream. 

“I do not think my husband would be exactly 


164 


A FABI^'IAJi JROMAJiCM 


enchanted,” she said. “On the contrary, he told 
me exactly the opposite, not half an hour ago.” 

“And the pecuniary rewards are not the only 
thing to be considered,” proceeded Juliani, without 
paying any attention to this objection. “There are 
also the artistic triumphs, the victories, the ovations 
wliich await you! Now, to have within your reach 
all this, fortune and fame, and to refuse to take it, 
to prefer this cramped, stupid life, which is so dis- 
tasteful to you — really I do not understand it! And 
as it is so utterly beyond my comprehension, I re- 
peat to you, that, until the very last, I shall hope 
that you will see things in their right light ; until 
the very last minute, I shall look for you. We 
leave at six o’clock Saturday afternoon ; at ten we 
arrive at Havre, and at midnight we sail. That is 
the programme.” 

Marcelle at first said nothing. Then, passing her 
hand over her eyes, she rose, and said with an 
effort : 

“ Well, ^on voyage!^' 

“No,” said Juliani, also rising. “I will not bid 
you good-by ,*^ I am going now, but I will not bid 
you good-by. Ah! what happiness if at the last 
moment, I should see you arrive at the station!” 

Marcelle made no reply, and in another moment 
she was alone. 

She crossed the room with a rather uncertain 
step, and threw herself down in a chair before the 
fire. How poor and mean seemed all her surround- 


A PARIiSlAN ROMANCE. 


165 


ings after the brilliant picture which had just been 
so glowingly sketched to her ! A successful prima 
donna, whom America would bear in triumph from 
pole to pole ! How she would enjoy the life. And 
then the return, covered with honors, to pour a 
fortune into Henri’s lap. It was a beautiful dream, 
but alas! it was naught but a dream, and one im- 
possible of realization. And yet — and yet — was it 
so impossible ! 

Ah! Signor Juliani, your flattering tongue has 
well accomplished its task! 


166 


A FABISIAA^ BOMAI^CK ^ 


CHAPTER XI. 

BREAKING A BUTTERFLY. 

May we come in ?” 

Marcelle, startled, turned from the window where 
she had been listlessl}^ gazing out into the street, 
and saw standing in the door-way of the little 
salon, Baron Chevrial and two ladies, resplendent 
in spring costumes, the latest creations of the 
world-renowned man milliner. One of them was 
Madame de Luce, the young widow whom, we have 
met once before, and the other a Mrs. Martin, an 
American, but who had lived so long abroad and 
become so thoroughly Parisianized, that she had 
entirely forgotten the time before Mr. Martin, 
whom by the way no one in Paris had ever seen, 
had “made his pile,” and when she herself had 
eked out their slender income by washing clothes 
for the miners. 

“May we come in?” repeated the baron. 

“Oh, come in, by all means,” said Marcelle, color- 
ing, and crushing a piece of paper she held in her 
hand into her pocket. 

“We rang twice,” said the baron, “but no one 
answered, and, as the door was ajar, we took the 
liberty of entering.” 


A PABISIA:^' POMAIiCK 


m 


“ I am afraid that our servant is out, and I did 
not hear the bell,” said Marcelle. 

“My dear,” said Madame de Luce, gushingly, 
“ we have just been to the horse show, Mathilde and 
I, where we met the baron, and the same thought 
came to all three of us : Suppose we go and see that 
poor Marcelle.” 

Marcelle winced inwardly at these words, but she 
gave no outward sign of annoyance. 

“It was kind of you,” she said, coldly, “sit down, 
if you can find chairs.” 

“But, tell me, my dear,” said Mrs. Martin, when 
they were seated, “ why weren’t you at the horse 
show? It is so amusing. For my part, I wish that 
it lasted all the year round.” 

“Yes,” joined in Madame de Luce, who had been 
carelessly scrutinizing the apartment, “ why weren’t 
you there?” 

“You know very well that I go nowhere.” 

“Oh! but at the horse show people dress very 
simply.” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Martin, affectedly 
smoothing down the superb lace on her dress, 
“very simply, you know.” 

Marcelle, who was on thorns, turned to the baron. 

“I need not ask you,” she said, “how Madame 
Chevrial is, for I had the pleasure of seeing her this 
morning.” 

“Yes, she is very well,” replied the baron. “My 


168 


A PARISIAN ROMANCK 


wife has superb health. An admirable woman, in 
every way.” 

“Oh, Marcelle, dear,” said Madame de Luce, “I 
nearly forgot. Mamma told me to offer you a place 
in her box for to-morrow evening. Your aunt, 
Madame Charteris, is going also.” 

“ I am exceedingly obliged, but I have no evening 
dress.” 

“But I can lend you a low bodice. That one of 
pale- gray silk, for instance, would just fit you.” 

“You are very kind, but I do not care to leave 
my mother-in-law in the evening,” said Marcelle, 
whose anger was slowly rising. These women had 
evidently come for the express purpose of humili- 
ating her. 

“Ah, dear madam,” said Mrs. Martin, “I wanted 
to ask you — if I am indiscreet, please say so — what 
price did you get for that bay mare you rode last 
autumn. The Eussian who bought it is going to 
Nice and wants to sell it again. I always liked that 
mare, but I did not wish to buy it when it came 
direct from your stable. I was afraid of hurting 
your feelings. But, of course, it makes no differ- 
ence to you now.” 

“Oh! none at all,” said Marcelle, upon whose 
cheeks two red spots were burning brightly, “but 
I do not know how much I sold it for. I had noth- 
ing to do with that. Besides, horses do not interest 
me any more. I ride in omnibuses.” 

Both ladies uttered a little excle-mation of horror. 


A fabisia:^' boma^tck 


169 


*‘In omnibuses!” exclaimed Mrs. Martin, with an 
affected shudder. “Oh! I should not like that; I 
should not like that at all!” 

Oh! Tilly Martin, if old Sam Piper, who used 
sometimes to give you a lift in his mule cart, could 
have heard you, what would he have said ! 

“Neither would I,” said Madame de Luce, “not at 
all! As I was saying just a little while ago to 
Mathilde, if reverses of fortune should ever come 
to me, as they have to that poor Marcelle, I would 
rather give up one course at dinner, or even two, 
and hire a little coupe by the month.” 

“ I thank you both for the strong interest you take 
in the smallest details of my life,” said Marcelle, 
withh a sarcasm she took no pains to conceal. 

“Oh! as to that, dear madam,” said Mrs. Martin, 
quickly, with a guilelessness worthy of the immortal 
Mistress Candor herself, “you can be sure that we 
pity you with all our heart. Poor little woman! we 
said just now on our way here. She who was so 
brilliant, so elegant, so petted, and now has to spend 
her life going to market and counting the linen — 
how painful it is.” 

If Marcelle had only known of Mrs. Martin’s 
former occupation, what a retort she could have 
made, but unfortunately she did not. 

Baron Chevrial, however, who had been listen- 
ing with secret enjoyment to the conversation, now 
thought it time to interfere. He saw an opportunity 
to win Macrelle’s gratitude, and he cared nothing 


170 


A PABISIAJ^ ROMAJfCK 


for offending the other two. So he said, with well- 
assumed gravity and with biting emphasis : 

“Pardon me, ladies; after what you have just 
said, I really cannot see that Madame de Targy is 
so much to be pitied, as you seem to think. When 
one is enabled to preserve, in the midst of mis- 
fortunes, such good, kind friends, who come to load 
her with consolation as intelligent as it is delicate, 
she is really not to be pitied.” 

Madame de Luce exchanged an angry glance 
with Mrs. Martin, and then both ladies rose 
abruptly. 

“ We must go, Mathilde,” said Madame de Luce. 
“ I am starved. Suppose we go and lunch at Mar- 
quis’.” 

“As you like,” replied Mrs. Martin. “Good-by, 
dear madam.” 

“Good-by, Marcelle. Keep a good heart.” 

“Good’by,” replied Marcelle, coldly. 

Then, with an elaborate salute to the baron, 
which was returned by one no less elaborate, the 
two ladies sailed away, dragging after them silks 
and laces, the cost of which would be a fortune to a 
poor family. 

“Charming creatures,” said the baron, dryly, as 
he resumed his seat. 

Marcelle tried to laugh, but her mortification 
suffocated her. In spite of her efforts at self-con- 
trol, two or three angry tears rolled down her 


A FAHISIA^i EOMAJVCJEL 


171 


cheek, which she quickly wiped away with her 
handkerchief. 

“They are, indeed!” she answered, steadying her 
voice. “ I thank you for speaking to them as you 
did. It really seemed as if they took pleasure in 
mortifying and torturing me.” 

“Really, my dear madam,” said the baron, with 
an admirable assumption of sympathy, “you take 
too much to heart the foolish chatter of those two 
little idiots.” 

“There are many like them, I assure you,” re- 
turned Marcelle, bitterly. “ It would be better if I 
ietermined to see no one ; for every visit that I 
make or receive, I have to undergo the same pun- 
ishment, the same torture.” 

“That I can well understand,” said Chevrial, “but 
you allow it to affect you too much ; if the present 
is a trifle hard, you must think of the future. 
There may be a few bad weeks to live through, but 
your situation cannot fail to be improved.” 

“And how?” asked Marcelle, despairingly. “We 
expect nothing, we ask for nothing.” 

The baron drew his chair a little closer, and fixed 
his eyes upon her with bold admiration. 

“Who knows?” he said, insinuatingly. “There 
are, perhaps, people who are more interested in you 
than you think.” 

Marcelle was too niuch absorbed in her own un- 
happiness to notice the look that accompanied the 


172 


A FABISIAJi ROMANCE, 


baron’s words, and it was therefore in the most 
innocent manner in the world that she replied: 

“Indeed! Who are they?” 

The baron leaned forward, until he was so close 
that his breath stirred her hair. 

“Why I, for instance,” he said, in a low voice, 
“ and you must acknowledge that nothing could be 
more natural.” 

Marcelle was now thoroughly roused and not a 
little startled. She drew quickly away, and regard- 
ing with a certain look of defiance the repulsive 
face which had been so close to hers, she said, in 
icy tones : 

“You? And what can you do for us?” 

The baron was too old and experienced a hunter 
in chases of this sort to abandon the game at the 
first set-back. In fact, obstacles only made him 
more keen. So, he said, wisely moderating his 
ardor a little : 

“Why, much, much! There is no reason why you 
should not gradually regain the position in society 
you once occupied there. It depends a little upon 
me, a little upon your husband, and — a little upon 
yourself also.” 

“Pardon me,” said Marcelle, paling a little, “I do 
not exactly understand you.” 

The baron’s lips twitched slightly with a nervous 
movement, as if he were repressing a smile. Very 
well, if she did not understand, he would proceed to 
enlighten her, as delicately as possible. 


A FAJilb’IAJV JiOJ^^A^VK 


173 


‘‘Your husband,” he began, quietly, but watching 
her every expression through half-closed eyes, 
which gave him more the appearance of a satyr 
than ever, “fulfills his duties at the bank exceed- 
ingly well, and he is beginning to show remarkable 
aptitude for business. In large financial establish- 
ments like mine, advancement is rapid and some- 
times takes giant strides. Besides the salary, there 
is such a thing as a share in the profits. Why, I 
am confident that, if your husband continues to 
increase in usefulness, you can in a short time, in a 
very short time — with a little aid, of course — re- 
appear in all your former glory, and drive into the 
shadow all those excellent friends who wound you 
to-day with their pity. I assure you, nothing is 
more feasible.” 

Marcelle had listened quietly to the preceding, 
and, when the baron, paused, she said, calmly : 

“ I will repeat your kind words to my husband, 
and I am sure that he will work doubly hard so 
that you may be justified in carrying out your in- 
tentions toward him.” 

“Yes,” said Chevrial, slowly, “but I told you that 
it depended a little on you also.” 

“I do not see of what use I can be in the matter.” 

“ I will tell you. Pardon me, dear madam, but I 
think that you have rather a bad opinion of me, 
and in some respects you are right.” 

As he paused, as if for a reply, Marcelle said, 
rather feebly: 


174 


A FABUSIAJir BOMAB’CK 


‘^Oh! not at all.” 

“Ah! Pardon me! lean read your heart, and 
in return I wish you to read mine. I am not an 
angel, I am simply a man, an ordinary man, and I 
like those who like ^ me. I render good for good ; 
but I cannot do more, and render, for instance, good 
for evil, kindness for injury, friendship for hatred.” 

“Hatred! Oh, no!” 

“Well, antipathy, if you like,” said Chevrial, with 
a half -smile. “ My dear madam, you have always 
had an antipathy for me that you have taken but 
little pains to dissemble. Frankly, that fact does 
not encourage me to aid you and your husband as 
I would like. I repeat, it is human nature to do for 
your friend what you would not do for mere ac- 
quaintances, and still less for enemies.” 

“I have never been your enemy, monsieur,” re- 
plied MarCelle, with some dignity, “ and less than 
ever since we owe you gratitude.” 

The baron laughed ; it was not a loud nor a dis- 
cordant laugh, but somehow it sent a chill through 
Marcelle’s veins. 

“ I do not want your gratitude,” he said. 

“Then what do you want?” she forced herself to 
ask. 

“I want your friendship.” 

“Our friendship will doubtless be a natural con- 
sequence of your kindness.” 

“But I mean your friendship in particular.” 

“I made no exception as regards mine.” 


A PARISIAN ROMANCR 


175 


‘‘So, after this explanation, no more hatred, no 
more antipathy?” asked the baron, in an insinu- 
ating mellifluous voice. 

Marcelle tried to smile, but it was a very feeble 
effort. “Certainly not,” she said, mechanically. 

“You will like me a little,” persisted Chevrial. 

“I should be very ungrateful if I did not.” 

“Oh! if you only like me because you feel that 
you ought to.” 

Marcelle, by this time, was in a terrible state of 
nervous anxiety. Would this hateful man never 
go, and end this horrible interview? 

“Well,” said the baron, rising and coming close 
to her, “give me your hand as a token of this prom- 
ised friendship.” 

She listlessly allowed him to take it and raise it to 
his lips. The contact seemed to scorch her flesh, 
and with a movement of offended modesty which 
she could not repress, she abruptly withdrew her 
hand. 

“Au re voir, my dear madam, my very dear 
madam. Count upon me !” 

As Marcelle heard the outer door close upon him, 
she started to her feet. She was very pale, and her 
gray eyes flashed with anger. 

“I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!” she ex- 
claimed, passionately; and wringing her hands 
with a nervous motion, she began to pace feverishly 
up and down the little room. 

Her brain was in a tumult of mingled fury and 


176 


A PAIiJSIA2^ ROMANCR 


shame. She had listened to him to the end! 
Feigned not to understand him. Submitted to that 
odious kiss. Wretch, wretch that she was! What 
was to be done! If she remained in Paris, she was 
lost! One day or another, in a moment of weak- 
ness, of despair, of terrible temptation, she might 
yield and become the lowest of women. Ah! why 
had they prevented her joining that concert troupe? 
that would have been safety. But no, they w^ere 
cruel! they were blind! To keep her here in that 
wretched little apartment was to condemn her not 
alone to suffering, to poverty, but also to evil. Yes! 
To go away was her only salvation. To go away! 

She stopped short with dilated eyes, and her 
breath coming in short gasps through her parted 
lips. 

Go away! Fly to the other end of the world! 
Why not? There was yet time. 

Trembling with excitement, she drew from her 
pocket the little crumpled note she had thrust there 
at the entrance of her visitors, and, smoothing it 
out, read again: 

“ Do not forget. The train leaves at six. I still 
hope.” 

She glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was 
a quarter past five. 

For a moment, she stood motionless as a statue, 
her somber eyes fixed on vacancy. Then, with a 
gesture of despair, she turned and fled from the 


room. 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE, 


177 


, CHAPTER XII. 

, OVER THE BRINK. 

It was half an hour later when Madame de Targy 
returned from her music lessons. Finding the little 
salon in darkness she rang for Maria, who imme- 
diately appeared, bearing a large lamp. 

“Pardon me, madam, I did not know that you 
had returned. I have but just come in myself.” 

“Did you get the bill from the grocer?” asked 
Madame de Targy, removing her hat and mantle. 

“Yes, madam.” 

“Ah! I am glad of that. It has been a difficult 
matter to obtain it.” 

“He says that he is in no hurry for his money.” 

“Very possibly, but I am always in a hurry to 
pay my debts.” 

“Shall I set the table now, madam?” asked 
Maria. 

“Yes, you may as well. Besides, it is nearly six 
o’clock.” 

As she spoke, Madame de Targy took the lamp 
and placed it on a little stand between the win- 
dows. 

“Dear lamp 1” she thought. “I am like Henri; I 
love you. Ah! these sweet domestic evenings. I 


178 


A FABISIAJi BOMAI^rCK 


never knew them before, and I am almost tempted 
to bless the disaster which has given them to me.” 

“ How has my daughter been to-day ?” she asked 
Maria, who was covering the table with a white 
cloth. “Gay or sad?” 

“Not very gay, madam.” 

“Has she been weeping?” 

“A little, madam.” 

Madame de Targy sighed, and sitting down near 
the lamp, took up her needlework which lay on the 
stand. 

“Has she seen any one to-day?” 

“Madame Chevrial was here this morning.” 

“Ah ! I am glad to hear that. Poor child! It was 
a little distraction for her.” 

“I have been out all the afternoon, as madam 
knows, but, as I returned, I met Baron Chevrial 
leaving the house.” 

Madame de Targy glanced up a little uneasily. 

“Pardon me, madam,” continued Maria, arrang- 
ing the knives and forks, “but I know what I think 
of him.” 

“He is good to my son.” 

“Yes, but he is a man that I would not care to 
meet alone in a wood.” 

“He is a little familiar.” 

“A little, madam!” with a toss of the head. 
“Well, frankly, he is not at all what I imagine a 
baron ought to be. He ” 


A PABIb’IAJi POMANCK 


179 


But any further criticism of the great banker was 
interrupted by the ringing of the door-bell. 

‘‘Does madam receive?” asked Maria. 

“ Certainly.” 

It was Doctor Chesnel, who entered a little out of 
breath. 

“Ah! my dear doctor!” exclaimed Madame de 
Targy, laying aside her work, and rising with a 
smile of welcome. “ Have you come to dine with 
us? That is kind of you.” 

“No,” said the doctor, whose brows were, knit, 
who was evidently very anxious and troubled about 
something. “ I have come because — I wished to see 

you — I Tell me, where is your daughter-in- 

law?” 

Madame de Targy gazed at him in astonishment. 

“ Where is my daughter-in-law,” she repeated. 
“Why, in her room, I suppose.” 

“You see,” said the doctor, brusquely, “I have 
been to the country again to-day, and as I got out 
of the train just now, there was a train standing on 
the other track just ready to depart for Havre, and 
in the midst of the crowd, I saw distinctly, Juliani, 
the tenor, and, strange to say, he had on his arm a 
young woman who reminded me strongly of your 
daughter-in-law. ’ 

“My daughter-in-law!” gasped Madame de Targy. 

“She had a very thick vail over her face, and I 
may have been deceived. Still, it was such a 
striking resemblance that I hastened round to the 


180 


A BOMANCK 


other gate to make sure. But it was too late ; the 
train was already moving off.” 

‘‘And you recognized Marcelle!” exclaimed 
Madame de Targy, who had listened to him in 
absolute stupefaction. 

“I thought I recognized her,” corrected the doc- 
tor, “Heaven grant that I was mistaken !” 

Without answering, Madame de Targy turned 
suddenly and entered Marcelle ’s room, which was 
on the other side of the little hall. 

The doctor drew out a large handkerchief and 
mopped his heated brow. 

It was not two minutes before Madame de Tragy 
returned, with unspeakable horror depicted upon 
her countenace, and holding in her hand a bit of 
paper, which she extended to the doctor. 

“It is true,” she murmured. “Look!” 

And she threw herself down on the sofa and 
buried her face in her hands. 

The doctor cast his eye over the sheet which con- 
tained these words : 

“Forgive me ! I have gone to America with Juli- 
ani. I love you both. Farewell.” 

The paper fell from his hands, and fluttered 
down to the floor. 

“Poor people!” he muttered, with the utmost com- 
passion. “ Poor people ! ” 

“What is to be done?” moaned Madame de Targy. 
“ My son will be here presently. What is to be 
done?” 


A TAIimiA'tr UOMAmB. 


181 


Doctor Chesnel shook his head. 

“I don’t know,” he replied, sadly, whatever you 
may do, the evil is irreparable.” 

“Yes, yes, of course,” cried Madame de Targy, 
raising her head, “but still, let us see. Suppose I 
go away, and you tell him that I went with her. 
No! that is impossible. Great Heaven!” starting 
up, “ There is Henri’s step upon the stairs. He is 
here! Leave me alone with him, but, in pity’s 
name, do not go away ! There! there!” 

She pointed to the door of her own room, and the 
doctor vanished. 

Sitting down to the table again, Madame de 
Targy snatched up her work and attempted to sew, 
forcing herself to appear as composed as possible. 

“Here I am back once more! Good-evening, 
mother,” cried Henri, entering gayly and casting 
his hat down upon the sofa. “Ah! what a happy 
moment it is when one returns to his little home! 
It is a moment that repays one for all the hard 
work of the day. Ah! the table is all set, and I am 
famished. Isn’t Marcelle here?” 

Madame de Targy, with bent head, made no 
answer, but continued to ply her needle mechani- 
cally. Her heart was beating to suffocation. 

Henri approached his mother, and said, with a 
laugh : 

^‘What an indefatigable worker you are, mother! 
When you have a task to perform, you would not 


182 


A PABIJSIAN ROMANCE. 


stop for an empire. But, where is Marcelle, mother? 
Where is Marcelle?” 

Madame de Targy let her work slip from her 
hands, and slowly raised to her son her anguished- 
stricken face. As Henri caught sight of it, he ut- 
tered a cry of alarm, and seizing her hand, he 
exclaimed : 

“What is it? What has happened?” 

Madame de Targy rose, and laying her disengaged 
hand upon his arm, asked in a voice of deep emo- 
tion: 

“My poor boy, do you love me?” 

“What do you mean?” murmured Henri, in min- 
gled astonishment and anxiety. 

“Because,” she faltered, “you have only me now, 
my poor boy.” 

For a moment he gazed at her with startled eyes, 
and then : 

“Marcelle!” he cried. 

“She has left us,” sobbed his mother, pointing to 
the note on the carpet. 

Henri stooped and picked it up, and as he read, 
he grew white to the very lips. 

“Gone! Gone! With Juliani! My God!” 

Then, as if taken by a sudden resolution, he 
snatched up his hat and turned to leave the room. 

“Henri!” cried his mother, who had watched, 
with breaking heart, his every movement. “Henri! 
Where are you going?” 

“To kill them both!” he replied, savagely. 


A PARISIAN ROMANGK 


183 


She rushed toward him, and throwing her arms 
about him, screamed : 

“Do not leave me, Henri! I implore you, do not 
leave me!” 

The doctor, alarmed by her cry, appeared in the 
door-way. 

“Let me go!” said Henri, struggling to escape 
from her embrace. “ Let me go !” 

The strain was too much for the poor woman, 
and, with a low cry she released her hold, and sank 
half -fainting to the floor. 

De Targy made a step toward the door, but the 
doctor laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder : 

“Henri!” he said, in a low, stern voice. “Think 
of your mother!” 

Henri hesitated for a moment ; and then, casting 
aside his hat, he stooped, and, raising his mother^s 
prostrate form, clasped her to his breast. 


184 


A FARISIAN ROMANCE, 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE DANCE OP DEATH. 

The Cafe de Latour in the Champs Elysees is one 
of the best in Paris, that is so far as excellence of 
cuisine and perfection of service are concerned. It 
is not one, however, famous for the exclusiveness 
of its guests, for the proprietor makes it a point not 
to inquire too closely into the moral character of 
his patrons. If at a midnight supper the cham- 
pagne proves a little too exhilarating, and the 
gayety becomes a trifle exuberant, no fault is 
found, provided that the proprieties are not too 
grossly violated. 

It was here, therefore, that that highly respected 
financier and most irreproachable nobleman, 
Baron Chevrial, had elected to give a banquet to 
Mademoiselle Rosa Guerin and a few of her sister 
artistes of the opera. 

Carte blanche had been given for all the arrange- 
ments, and the private dining-room selected for the 
purpose looked really charming. It was rather a 
large room, divided in the center by a row of col- 
umns, festooned with roses and smilax. A high, 
broad window with a balcony attached, looked out 
upon the Champs Elysees with its myriads of gas- 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE, 


185 


jets. The table sparkled with glass and silver, and 
there were flowers in the greatest profusion every- 
where. At one end of the room a raised platform 
had been curtained off for the musicians. 

Baron Chevrial, as he entered the room about 
eleven o’clock, accompanied by his valet, Ambroise, 
could not but feel that his orders had been well car- 
ried out. 

“Admirable!” he said, casting a rapid glance 
about. “ It could not be better. The windows are 
open, I see. Well, perhaps it is as well. It is not 
cold this evening, and then the view is pretty. You 
have not forgotten the music, Ambroise.” 

“No, monsieur. The stand is there.” 

“Ah! exactly, exactly. Perfect.” 

As Ambroise helped his master to remove his 
overcoat, he noticed that the baron was rather 
more shaky than usual, and that the muscles of his 
face twitched now and then with a convulsive 
movement. 

“Did you see the gentlemen?” 

“Yes, monsieur, they have promied to come.” 

“And the young ladies?” 

“The young ladies also.” 

“All of them?” 

“Yes, monsieur — Mademoiselle Lombard, Made- 
moiselle Bertoldi, and Mademoiselle Gillette.” 

Certainly, the baron was not himself to-night. 
He appeared scarcely to understand Ambroise’s re- 
ply, but stood looking at him with a vacant stare. 


186 


A FABISIA^ BOMAMK 


Suddenly he shivered, and seemed to pull himself 
together. 

“In— in costume?” he asked, vrith evident effort. 

“Yes, monsieur, in costume,” replied Ambroise, 
who had been intently observing his master. “ Im- 
mediately after the ballet of the third act, accord- 
ing to monsieur’s desire, but only on the condition 
that everything should be conducted in the most 
proper fashion.” 

“Certainly, certainly. That is understood.” 

As he spoke, the baron staggered and caught at 
the back of a chair for support. 

“Brandy,” he gasped. “Brandy! Quick!” 

Ambroise poured out half a glass of the required 
stimulant, and was at his side in a moment. The 
baron raised it to his lips with a trembling hand, 
and the glass clattered against his teeth as he 
slowly swallowed the draught. 

“Are you ill, monsieur?” asked Ambroise. 

The baron set down the glass, and straightened 
himself up. 

“No, no,” he said, irritably. “I am a little 
fatigued, that’s all. I have overexerted myself to- 
day, arranging about that villa. And then the 
spring weather— the first warm days. Most de- 
cidedly the spring does not agree with me.” 

“ It is not a very convenient time to be ill, mon- 
sieur,” said Ambroise, with an obsequious smile. 

“I know that without your telling me,” replied 
the baron, sharply. 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


187 


The brandy had had its effect, for he seemed to 
have quite recovered. 

“ I am going to see about the music. I will re- 
turn in a few minutes. If the gentlemen come, tell 
them so. I told Valenti to show them up at once. 
And, by the way, Ambroise, some one will probably 
come from the bank with some paper for me to 
sign. Let me know, when he does.” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

Ambroise followed him with an angry glance, as 
he left the room. Not one word of thanks had he 
received for all his trouble. He had run about all 
day to see that everything should be properly car- 
ried out. Confound the supper, the music, and the 
ballet girls! 

Pouring out a glass of Madeira, he raised it in 
the air, and saying aloud, “To your health, filthy 
brute!” he drained it at a gulp. 

The sound of laughter was heard outside in the 
hall, the door opened and a servant entered, fol- 
lowed by three gentlemen in evening dress — Lau- 
banere, Tirandel, and Vaumartin. 

Ambroise stepped forward to receive them. 

“The baron will be here in a moment, gentle- 
men,” he said. “He asked me to beg you to excuse 
him.” 

“Very well, my man,” said Laubanere, “we can 
wait.” 

Ambroise bowed, and retired. 


188 


A FAmSIAJ}^ ROMANCE. 


“It is really very pretty here, is it not?” said Vau- 
martin. 

“Passable!” yawned Tirandel, who had thrown 
himself into a chair, with his hands in his pockets 
and his legs stretched out. 

“The devil!” exclaimed Vaumartin, who had been 
examining the decorations. “This will cost our 
friend a pretty penny.” 

“And this is but a drop in the bucket,” said Lau- 
banere. “ Gillette tells me that he has given Kosa a 
villa.” 

“A villa!” 

“He must bo badly gone, to give her such a 
present. For Chevrial, as a rule, is scarcely the 
soul of generosity.” 

“But how did it happen? There must be some 
story connected with it.” 

“ I don’t know. T have not heard the particulars. 
I was invited like you this afternoon, and here I 
am. But, by the way, isn’t it frightful about that 
poor Julian! ?” 

“Has the news been confirmed?” 

“Yes, beyond a doubt. They told me so at the 
embassy to-day. Julian! and his whole company 
had embarked on the Fulton, sailing from New 
York for New Orleans, and they were burned at 
sea. Not a soul saved, not one!” 

“Yes, "it is terrible,” said Tirandel, rousing him- 
self a little, “especially for that unfortunate little 
woman who was with him.” 


A PAEI8IAN ROMANCE, 


189 


‘‘Madame de Targy?” 

“Yes, Madame de Targy! Poor little woman!” 

“It was her own fault!” said Laubanere. “What 
business had she to be there. It was strange. She 
always seemed so modest. I never understood that 
escapade of hers.” 

“Nor I,” said Vaumartin. 

“Between ourselves,” said Tirandel, lowering his 
voice, “our friend, the baron, was not entirely a 
stranger to the event.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Laubanere. 

“Why, when the De Targy s were ruined, he took 
the husband into his office— you know his kind 
heart— and then laid siege to the wife. She took 
alarm and fled.” 

“Well, really, that wasn’t very honorable of our 
friend, to say the least.” 

“Does it surprise you?” asked Vaumartin, cyni- 
cally. 

“Dear Chevrial,” said Tirandel, “he is full of 
brains; much talent! But he is hard, very hard, 
extremely hard.” 

“Yes, he will never die of enlargement of the 
heart,” observed Laubanere. “ I like Chevrial well 
enough, but as a matter of fact, he is an old fox.” 

“ He has very brilliant qualities of course,” said 
Vaumartin, “very brilliant, but he is a villainous 
type, and I should be sorry to know many like 
him.” 

“ Anybody who looked at him would know what 


190 


A PAliiaiAN ROMANCE. 


he was,” remarked Tiraiidel. “He bears his char- 
acter stamped upon his countenance. He has a 
regular convict face.” 

Laubanere and Tirandel began to laugh, but their 
merriment was suddenly checked by the appear- 
ance of the gentleman under discussion, and that 
most fascinating of all conversations, the criticism 
of one’s friends, was interrupted for the time being. 

“Ah! there he is! How are you, dear boy,” said 
Tirandel, who rarely lost his composure under any 
circumstances, and did not now, although he was 
not quite certain how much the baron had over- 
heard. 

“My dear baron!” exclaimed Laubanere, cordially 
advancing to Chevrial. 

The baron shook hands with his guests in a man- 
ner that reassured their fears. 

“This is most kind of you,” he said, “to accept 
my invitation at so short a notice.” 

“Nonsense!” said Laubanere, “we were only too 
happy to come.” 

“Dear boy!” murmured Tirandel, resuming his 
lazy attitude. 

“We are always at your service,” said Vau- 
martin. “ But I believe we are to offer you our con- 
gratulations, baron,” said Laubanere. “It is a 
triumph of which you ought to be proud; the 
charming, haughty RDsa has found her master at 
last.” 

“ It does you honor, and your friends also.” 


A FAJilSJAN BOMANCK 


191 


‘‘Yes, indeed. You are invincible, baron.” 

Chevrial smiled a little ambiguously. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, seating himself in a weary 
way, and speaking in a rather high-pitched voice, 
which had a suspicion of nervous trembling in it, 
as if it were not quite under its owner’s control ; 
“you really confuse me with your compliments, all 
the more as I do not deserve them. For, in reality, 
I am beaten.” 

All three gentlemen looked surprised, and politely 
incredulous. 

“Bah!” ejaculated Laubanere. 

“Explain yourself!” said Vaumartin. “May we 
be permitted to know how?” 

“It is really a very funny affair, as you will see,” 
returned the baron. “ Every one knows that, for a 
long time, Rosa has appealed strongly to my imagi- 
nation; in short, I have been wild over her. But 
still, as you know, I am not a child ; I even think 
sometimes that I never was one. So, fascinated as 
I was with her, I did not think it was worth while 
to offer her the moon and stars, especially if she 
did not ask for them. Now, for some time past, 
she has been in the habit of consulting me and 
taking my advice as to her operations on the 
Bourse, and her bets on the races ; you know what 
a gambler she is. Well, naturally, my first thought 
and even my second, was to give her bad advice.” 

Tirandel glanced up at this. 

“Ah! that is so like you, dear boy,” he muttered. 


192 A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 

good-naturedly. Tirandel had once been associated 
in an enterprise with Chevrial, and had come out 
of it a wiser, if a poorer man, than when he went 
in. 

“I have always believed and practiced,” con- 
tinued the baron, ‘‘the adage that all is fair in love 
or war, and that both parties have a right to use all 
means in their power to win.” 

“ Per fas et ne fas^ 

“Exactly, Vaumartin! Per fas et nefas. You are 
quite correct. But what do you think? She, mar- 
velous to relate, turned out more shrewd than I.” 

“ Impossible ! Rosa ?” 

“Yes, Rosa! The rose of roses, and,” with a 
grimace, “with the inevitable thorns. Of course, 
in consequence of my bad advice, I expected every 
day to hear that she was completely ruined, which 
would have permitted me to come delicately to her 
aid without ruining myself. But quite the contrary. 
To my amazement, I perceived that the more she 
speculated, the more her little fortune seemed to in- 
crease. Then I began to make inquiries, and I 
finally understood the whole business. Instead of 
following my counsels, she had done the exact oppo- 
site of what I told her. She had beaten me with my 
own weapons, and, do you know, it made me all the 
fonder of her. This morning, at a rather early 
hour, she came to my house, as usual. I refused to 
be made a fool of any longer, and proved to her 
that I knew all. The little devil laughed in my 


A PAHISIAJSI JiOMAyCK 


193 


fcice. Then there was a scene of reproaches, of in- 
sults even. She knows how to take me. She under- 
stands me. Never have I seen her when she was so 
charming. I felt that she was going to escape me. 
I made a foolish play, perhaps, but I offered her a 
villa, furniture, and all. She accepted. So, you 
see, I am beaten.” 

“And content to be so!” observed Laubanere. 

The baron smiled, and twisted his mustache. 

“Oh! I hope that it will have its compensations. 
However, to finish the story. Ah ! Here are the 
ladies.” 

Announced by Ambroise, the fair Rosa, herself, 
appeared, followed by three girls, all young and 
all pretty. As Chevrial had requested, they had 
come straight from the theater, in the short volu- 
minous skirts and low corsages of their ballet cos- 
tume. Mademoiselle Bertoldi, a laughing blonde, 
was in green ; Mademoiselle Lombard, in scarlet ; 
Mademoiselle Gillette, in yellow and the premiere 
danseuse, Mademoiselle Rosa Guerin, was all in 
black — black tights, black dress, and black gloves. 
The only bit of color about her was the blood-red 
radiance of the rubies that sparkled on her neck, on 
her arms, and in the masses of her dark hair. 

The baron rose to receive his guests, but, as he 
did so, his knees seemed to give way beneath his 
weight, and he clutched at the back of the chair for 
support. It was only for a moment, however, and 


194 


A PABUSIAN ROMANCE, 


then he advanced, smilingly, if a little unsteadily, 
toward Rosa and her companions. 

Laubanere nudged Vaumartin. 

“Did you notice that,” he whispered. “He is 
shakier than ever this evening.” 

Vaumartin nodded. 

“Ladies,” said Chevrial, “I cannot express the 
pleasure it gives me to see you, and ” 

“Oh! cut that, my dear baron,” laughed Rosa. 
“Why shouldn’t they come?” 

“Why not, of course?” chimed in the blonde, 
Marie Bertoldi. “ I could not resist coming, especi- 
ally when I heard that there was.to be lobster.” 

“Yes, my dear,” said Chevrial, “lobster for you 
and cucumbers for Lombard.” 

“And nothing for me?” asked Mademoiselle Gill- 
ette, with a pretended pout. 

“Yes, indeed, for you there are truffles. I know 
all your tastes.” 

“You are an angel!” exclaimed Gillette, enthu- 
siastically. 

“Yes, a perfect angel,” echoed the other two. 

“Well, angel or not, 1 hope we sha’n’t have to 
wait long,” said Rosa. “I am simply starved! Ah! 
my dear Tirandel, did you really manage to make 
the exertion and come? By the way, how is the 
water-cure? Is not that what you are trying now. 
It seems to me that you are looking a little better.” 

“Yes,” yawned Tirandel, “there is a little im- 
provement, I think.” 


A nOMANGK, 


195 


“Glad to hear it!” 

“Madam is served,” said Ambroise, who had been 
directing the operations of two servants, as they 
brought in the supper. 

“Ah!” said Rosa, with a sigh of satisfaction. 
“Laubanere, sit at my left; you, my dear baron, of 
course, on my right. I will reserve the place oppo- 
site for Doctor Chesnel, who promised me just now, 
at the theater, that he would come. Ladies, gentle- 
men, place yourselves where you like.” 

Amid merry laughter, gay conversation, and 
the popping of champagne corks, the supper pro- 
ceeded. Suddenly from behind the recess, the 
strains of an air from Traviata resounded through 
the room. 

“Music, too!” cried Rosa, clapping her hands. 
“ How delightful !” 

“Charming of you, baron!” chorused the others. 

“You must all of you be as jolly as possible,” said 
Rosa. “For, do you know that frightful piece of. 
news has completely upset me. Were we not all 
upset at the theater to-night?” 

“Yes,” said Gillette, “it is terrible!” 

“ Shocking!” 

“Awful!” 

“But what do you mean?” asked Laubanere. 
“What piece of news?” 

“Why, that shipwreck of the Fulton!” answered 
Rosa. “To be drowned and burned at the same 
time is simply ghastly. And when I think how near 


196 


A PAJiJSIAIir ROMANCE. 


I came to being there, myself! Juliani was very 
anxious to take me with him. Poor fellow !” 

“Well, frankly,” said Laubanere, “he is not the 
one I pity the most.” 

“Oh! neither do I! If it had been he alone — but 
our poor comrades. And then that little society 
woman he carried away with him.” 

“Madame de Targy?” 

“Yes, how unfortunate! Just in the beginning of 
her career, too.” 

“ Those De Targys have had a very hard time of 
it all round,” observed Vaumartin. “What a series 
of disasters has overtaken them! You- remember, 
Chevrial, don’t you, that ball they gave, where we 
were all present?” 

“Yes! Yes!” replied Chevrial, shortly. 

The baron had not been particularly gay through- 
out the supper, and this conversation about the De 
Targys seemed to annoy him. 

“Juliani was there, too,” proceeded Vaumartin. 
“Well, the next day, they were completely ruined. 
Six or seven months later, flight of the young wife 
to America, and now, there she is at the bottom of 
the ocean.” 

“ Well, it is certainly very annoying to her,” said 
the baron, “but it was the result of her own wrong 
doing.” 

Tirandel laughed. 

“Dear boy, you are superb!” he said, with lazy 
sarcasm. 


A FABISIAI^ BOMAB'OK 


197 


To run away with a singer was so stupid,” said 
Chevrial, frowning. “Besides, they say that she 
made a terrible failure on the stage, and she de- 
served to. However, let us drop the subject; it 
does not interest me.” 

“Poor little woman!” exclaimed Rosa, with gen- 
uine pity shining in her clear gray eyes. “ I forbid 
you to speak harshly of her. She suffered enough, 
it seems to me, without being reproached now that 
she is dead. Can’t you see her in the middle of the 
flames, at night, away out at sea? B-rr-r!” with a 
shudder. “ Why, baron, I prefer your love to a fate 
like that!” 

This last remark was greeted with a roar of 
laughter, in which Chevrial himself could not help 
joining. 

As it died away, Ambroise approached the baron, 
and said, in a low voice : 

“ Monsieur de Targy has come, monsieur, with the 
papers.” 

“Ah!” said the baron, rising. “I will go to him.” 

But Rosa, who had overheard the valet’s words, 
laid her hand on Chevrial’s arm to detain him. 

“Whom did he say?” she asked. “Monsieur de 
Targy? What, the husband of that little woman 
we were just speaking of?” 

“Yes, he is in my employ.” 

“And does he know the news?” 

“Certainly, he was informed of it several days 
ago.” 


198 


A PABISIAN ROMANCE, 


Oh ! my dear baron !” exclaimed Rosa, eagerly, 
‘‘instead of going to him, send for him to come 
here ! Please ! I would so like to see him !” 

“Oh! yes, baron, do!” cried the other girls. 

“But ” began Chevrial, hesitating. 

“Ah!” pleaded Rosa, with her sweetest smile, 
“you cannot refuse me such a trifle as that.” 

“Very well, so be it, if it will amuse you,” said 
the baron, resuming his seat. “ Ambroise, tell him 
to come here, and bring me pen and ink.” 

“But tell me, baron,” said Rosa, “since he learned 
of his wife’s death, has he. continued to go to the 
bank as usual?” 

“Yes, exactly. He has affected the most com- 
plete indifference.” 

“After all,” said Vaumartin. “It was a fortunate 
thing for him to be relieved of her.” 

“Yes, now he can marry again.” 

“Hush!” said Rosa, in a warning whisper. “Here 
he is.” 

As Henri caught sight of the supper and the 
guests, he hesitated a moment, as if doubtful 
whether to enter, and then he advanced quietly to 
the baron’s side. He was pale and haggard, and 
there were deep purple rings beneath his eyes, but 
his manner was perfectly composed. 

“You have the balance sheets?” asked the baron, 
politely. 

“Yes, monsieur, these papers must be signed be- 
fore to-morrow,” 


A PABISIAJi Ji03IA^VF. 


199 


‘‘Yes, yes.” 

Rosa leaned over and whispered to Laubanere : 

“He is really very nice. I like his looks.” 

“There!” said the baron, returning the papers 
which he had signed. “ I thank you for your trouble.” 

Henri turned to go, but Rosa, as if impelled by 
.some sudden thought, half rose: 

. “Monsieur!” she said. 

De Targy stopped and faced about. 

“Madam?” he said, questioningly. 

“May I not offer you something?” said Rosa, a 
little timidly. “A glass of champagne?” 

“Thanks, no, madam.” 

Rosa flushed scarlet. 

“Oh! no, of course not,” she faltered. “I under- 
stand — pardon me!” __ 

De Targy bowed gravely and left the room. 

“How stupid of you, Rosa,” exclaimed Gillette, 
“to offer champagne to that unhappy man.” 

“I know it! Of course I was stupid, but I was 
carried away by my sympathy for the poor fellow. 
He is charming. You say he is in your employ, 
Chevrial ?” 

“Yes, he is my secretary.” 

“Oh, your secretary?” with a mischievous moue. 
“Then I pity Madame Chevrial less.” 

An involuntary smile went round the table. 

“Really, Rosa,” said Chevrial, querulously, “after 
all the pains I have taken for you to-day, you might 


200 


A FAniSIAJ^ IWJfAM% 


have spared me that taunt. For, without boasting, 
I have accomplished miracles.” 

“Yes,” assented Rosa, nonchalantly sipping her 
wine, “you have really been very kind.” ; 

“By the way, Chevrial,” said Laubanere, “finish 
that story of the villa.” 

“Oh! yes,” laughed Rosa, “he is dying to tell it.” 

“ Oh, it won’t take long,” said Chevrial. “This 
morning, at eleven o’clock, the subject had not been 
broached. I happened to know that the Count Sal- 
vini had returned to Naples, and that his villa was 
for sale. I learned that Mademoiselle Rosa desired 
to purchase it ; I offered her my humble services in 
the negotiations, and before sunset the title-deeds 
were in her possession. That is all.” 

“Bravo, dear boy!” cried Tirandel. 

“Upon my word, baron,” said Yaumartin, “one 
would say that you were in possession of Aladdin’s 
wonderful lamp.” 

Rosa looked up with a merry twinkle in her eyes. 

“Or that he was one of the forty thieves,” she 
added, quickly. 

“Or that I am one of the forty thieves,” repeated 
the baron, testily, in the midst of the laughter pro- 
voked by this sally. “Oh! exactly. However, I 
am perfectly indifferent to it. It is the fashion to 
sneer at money and millionaires, but, as a matter of 
fact, you all adore them both. Now, tell me, why 
have I the honor and pleasure of your society this 


A FABISIAJ^ BOMAXCB. 


201 


evening. Because you like me. And why do you 
like me? I ask you that. Am I handsome?” 

“No!” was the laughing rejoinder, shouted in 
chorus. 

“Have* I talent? Have I genius?” 

“No!” 

‘^Am I a man remarkable in any way?” 

“No!” 

“Am I a good fellow?” 

“No!” 

“No! I am not even a good fellow. And yet,” he 
continued, with a sarcastic smile, “I am courted, 
idolized by the elite of both sexes, which you here 
represent so worthily.” 

“Bravo!” cried Rosa. “He speaks well. You 
ought to become a deputy.” 

“ I am thinking of it,” Chevrial responded, dryly, 
as he motioned them to fill their glasses. “ Here is 
a toast to the god who gives us all pleasures, to the 
god Money, so much calumniated by the envious. 
To Money!” 

. “To Money!” 

“ Fill up again, and I will offer you a second toast. 
To my charming neighbor, in my opinion, one of 
the most exquisite incarnations of divine matter. 
To Rosa!” 

“To Rosa!” 

“Thanks!” said Rosa, demurely. 

“Pardon me!” said Vaumartin, who was begin- 
ning to show a little the effects of the frequent 


202 


A FAJimA:N- ROMANCE 


libations. “I join with all my soul in that toast, 
and I wish to proclaim also the charming lady the 
queen of hearts as she is the queen of flowers.” 

“Good! Good!” 

“I wish to protest, however,” continued Vau- 
martin, with a silly grin, “against the mat — materi- 
alistic character of our friend’s toast. I personally 
am an idealist — I ” 

“Oh! pshaw!” cried Eosa, laughing. “Don’t let 
us have any discussions. Listen to that divine 
waltz. Can you resist it?” 

“Yes, yes, a waltz!” cried Laubanere, seizing 
Gillette about the waist, and whirling her out into 
the middle of the room. 

His example was quickly followed by Vaumartin 
with Mademoiselle Bertoldi, and Tirandel with 
Mademoiselle Lombard. 

“Come, baron! With me!” exclaimed Rosa, tak- 
ing him by the hand. 

Round and round whirled the four couples to the 
inspiring strains of Strauss, the silk incased limbs 
and gauzy skirts of the ladies forming an odd con- 
trast to the black dress-suits of their partners. 

Suddenly the baron stopped, and releasing Rosa, 
staggered toward the table. His face was flushed 
a deep purple hue, his heavy lower lip hung pendu- 
lously down, and his breath came in short, quick 
gasps. 

Rosa threw herself down in her chair at the head 


A PAHISIAN ROMANCE, 


203 


of the table, and unfurled a large black fan, which 
she wore attached to her girdle by a silver chain. 

One after another, the other couples returned 
gayly to their places, laughing and out of breath. 

The baron, slowly, and with apparent difficulty, 
filled a glass to the brim with champagne, and 
raising it in the air, he said, with a glance around 
the circle of his guests that had something of 
vacancy in it : 

“I offer you another toast, and the last.” 

“No! No! not the last,” exclaimed Rosa. 

“Yes, the last. To Matter! The fruitful source 
of all things, and, in particular, of the delightful 
things we are enjoying at this present moment! 
To Matter, which sparkles in our glasses like a dis- 
tilled essence of precious stones, and fills our veins 
with youth and pleasure!” 

The baron paused a moment, and seemed trying 
to collect his thoughts. 

“Bravo!” cried Vaumartin. 

“Bravo!” echoed the rest. 

“To Matter!” continued Chevrial, his voice sound- 
ing a little thicker and huskier than before. “To 
Matter, that shines forth from the white shoulders 
of our young friends—” — 

“Bravo! Goon!” 

“To Matter! I said, to Matter!” 

It was with great effort that he spoke now, and 
the words fell slowly from his lips, as if forced out. 

“To Matter! which— united to money— gives pro- 


204 


A ROMANCE. 


ducts — no — the most astonishing fetes and — and — 
Trimalcyon, for example — but — but — that was 
among the ancients. The ancients did not know 
everything n — o — not everything.” 

What he was saying was now scarcely audible, 
and the words were mumbled incoherently. The 
purple of his face had deepened and his eyes seemed 
starting out of their swollen sockets. With one 
hand he leaned heavily on the table. The other, 
which still held aloft the glass, trembled as if 
struck with palsy, and the yellow liquid was dashed 
over the brim in a shower of golden drops. 

“No — no— not everything,” he rambled on, amid 
the silence of his guests who looked at one another 
in astonishment and alarm, “not gas — stock at 
thirty-eight. I — the gas affects — the heat — ill — I — 
I ” 

His head sank heavily upon his breast, his up- 
lifted hand fell to his side, and with a crash, the 
champagne glass was shivered into a thousand 
pieces. 

In an instant all were on their feet. 

“What is the matter, baron?” exclaimed Rosa. 

“Are you ill?” asked Laubanere, putting his arm 
about the shaking form. 

“Give him air!” said Tirandel, in a low voice. 

“Will you go out on the balcony with me, where 
you can get the air?” asked Rosa, coming close to 
ChevriaTs side and taking his hand, 


A PARISIAN ROMANGR 


206 


The baron started, shuddered, and raised his head 
a little. 

^‘Yes, yes,” he murmured, faintly, ‘‘you — you 
understand me.” 

“Very well, then,” said Rosa, drawing his arm 
through hers. “Lean upon me! It is nothing. You 
will soon be better. Come!” 

Slowly the baron turned, and with faltering steps 
allowed himself to be led out upon the balcony. 

“He is breaking up!” said Tirandel, in a low 
voice, and with an ominous shake of the head. 

“What is the matter with him?” asked Gillette. 

“Oh, it is nothing,” replied Laubanere. “I have 
seen him almost as bad once or twice before. Ah ! 
here is the doctor.” 

“Good-evening, gentlemen,” exclaimed Doctor 
Chesnel, who had just entered,.advancing to the 
group, hat in hand, and overcoat thrown over his 
arm. “Ladies, your most obedient.” 

“You are just in time, doctor,” said Tirandel, 
shaking his hand; “our friend has been taken ill.” 

“Whom do you mean?” asked the doctor. “Who 
has been taken ill?” 

“The baron.” 

“The baron! Where is he?” 

“Out there, on the balcony.” 

The doctor threw down his hat and coat on a 
chair, but before he could make a step toward the 
window, he was startled by a low cry of horror, and 
Rosa hurried through the window. In another mo- 


206 


A FAJimA]\r JiOMA^'CK 


ment, outlined against the clear, starry sky, the 
baron was seen to sway and then fall heavily to the 
ground. 

The doctor hurried out to the balcony and bent 
over the prostrate form. 

Rosa had sunk down near the window, with her 
face buried in her hands, as if to shut out some 
awful sight. The others stood as if turned into 
marble, all eyes fixed upon the balcony. Through 
the room fioated the sensuous melody of “Wine, 
Women, and Song,” which the band were playing 
out of sight, in the curtained recess. 

Then, suddenly the doctor straightened himself 
up, turned and faced the frightened company. 
Raising his hand with a commanding gesture : 

“Stop that music!” he said, in grave, solemn 
tones. “The baron is dead!” 


A PABIBJAN ROMANOS, 


207 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ILLUSIVE HOPES. 

Doctor Chesnel was ri^ht when he said that he 
could not understand why it was that people 
laughed whenever Asnieres was mentioned. A 
prejudice does exist against the town among the 
Parisians, but upon what this prejudice is based, it 
is difficult to say. Certainly it is not a fashionable 
place, but situated as it is on the banks of the Seine, 
and within easy distance of the metropolis, it offers 
many attractions as a place of residence. 

No more charming place of retreat from the bustle 
and turmoil of the city could be imagined than the 
villa which the doctor had purchased, just outside 
of the town on the banks of the river. The house 
itself was of medium size, painted white, and over- 
run with clematis; the rooms were bright and 
sunny, and furnished with all sorts of queer odds 
and ends of furniture and bric-a-brac which Ches- 
nel had picked up from time to time. The chief 
beauty of the place, however, was the garden, with 
its parterres of brilliant old-fashioned flowers, and 
its magnificent old trees, through the branches of 
which could be caught glimpses of the placid river 
and the meadows beyond. 


208 


A FA2iISIA:\- JlOJfA^'CK 


In this garden, one afternoon early in October, 
sat, in a low reclining chair, Madame de Targy, 
who, with her son, had come to Asnieres a few days 
before to pay her good friend, the doctor, a long- 
promised visit. Her book had slipped from her 
hands, and, with half-closed eyes, she was enjoying 
to the full the luxury of absolute idleness. 

After all the trouble that had come to her during 
the last year, it was unspeakable comfort to be able 
to rest in this quiet, peaceful spot. The first few 
weeks after Marcelle’s flight had been terrible ones. 
The first outbreak of shame and anguish passed, 
Henri had absolutely forbidden all mention of his 
wife’s name. Then had come the news of the ship- 
wreck of the Fulton. At that time, Madame de 
Targy, in spite of her son’s prohibition, had at- 
tempted some words of consolation, but she had 
been tenderly, but firmly silenced. 

“Mother,” he said, “leave me to bear my burden 
alone. Some day I may be able to talk with you, 
but not now.” 

Uncomplainingly, but pale and silent, he went 
about his work as usual, and the mother’s heart 
had ached, as she had felt how powerless she was 
to comfort him. Of late, however, he had seemed a 
little more cheerful, and Madame de Targy was 
beginning to feel that there might be happy days 
in store for them still. 

To-day, Henri, who had received a fortnight’s 
vacation from the bank, where he still retained his 


A PABisij^r boma:^cm 


209 


position under tlie new management, had gone on 
a fishing excursion, and the doctor was in Paris, 
attending to his professional duties ; so Madame de 
Targy was alone. 

As she lay under the trees, half-lulled to sleep by 
the soft, balmy air, she was roused by a light step 
coming over the grass, and looking up, she saw a 
black-robed figure advancing toward her. 

“ Armande ! Armande Chevrial! Can it be possi- 
ble?’’ she exclaimed, rising to her feet, and holding 
out both hands. 

Madame Chevrial stooped and kissed the old lady 
on both cheeks, and then, making her resume her 
seat, sat down beside her upon a rustic bench. 

Very becoming were the somber garments to the 
blue eyes and golden hair of the baroness, and, 
upon her fair face was a look of peaceful content- 
ment that had not been there during the baron’s 
life. 

“My dear child,” said Madame de Targy, affec- 
tionately, “ what a pleasure it is to see you ! And 
so unexpected, too. I thought you intended to re- 
main at Dieppe until the middle of November.” 

“I did intend to,” replied Armande, “but I was 
recalled to Paris by a matter of business. I will tell 
you about it presently. Almost as soon as I arrived 
yesterday, I went to the Rue de Rome, but I found 
no one there.” 

“No. We have been here for three or four days 
now. A long time ago I promised our good doctor 


210 


A FAI{ISIA2>r ROMAilCB, 


to make him a visit, but I wished to wait until my 
son could come with me.” 

“And how is your son?” 

“ A little more cheerful. The country does him 
good, it seems to me. He is beginning to smile 
. again, poor boy. But tell me of yourself. Are you 
to be in Paris this winter?” 

“I do not know,” answered Armande, with a 
slight hesitation. “1 think so.” 

Madame de Targy cast an admiring glance at the 
grave, sweet face of the young widow. 

“My dear,” she said, with a frankness justified by 
their old friendship, “you are more beautiful than 
ever.” 

Armande smiled sadly. 

“Ah!” she said, “if you knew how little I cared 
for that.” 

“ But you should care. Beauty is a great gift, a 
power for good or evil. It all depends on the use 
made of it. And you, my dear, we all know would 
never abuse it.” 

It was an unspeakable pleasure to Armande, 
who, in spite of her wealth, was so lonely, to hear 
words of praise and aft’ection, from this old lady 
she had always been so fond of. Before the baron’s 
death, her horror of his shameless life and the deep 
feeling of disgust that overwhelmed her at the 
thought that she was bound to this monster, had 
made her exceedingly cold and reserved, and she 
had made but few friends. To Madame de Targy, 


A PABISIA]^ BOMAXCK 


211 


however, who had known her from a child, she was 
able to open her heart to a certain extent, and in 
her she had always found a stanch and loyal 
friend. 

Still, from a certain feeling of delicacy, she hesi- 
tated to broach the subject which had brought her 
to Asnieres to-day. 

“What a pretty place this is,” she said, absently 
gazing across the river to where the towers and 
roofs of Paris were visible beyond the meadows. 

“Yes,” said Madame de Targy, “ it is delightful 
here. I will show you the house by and by. It is 
full of quaint things. But, you said, some matter 
of business had brought you to Paris. Nothing un- 
pleasant, I hope.” 

“No,” said Armande, with a slightly embarrassed 
air. “It was something — a matter that interests 
you a little, and that cannot be brought to a suc- 
cessful result without your aid.” 

“Oh! you know that in all respects you can count 
upon me, dear Armande,” replied Madame de 
Targy, heartily. “But what is it?” 

“Why, this. My lawyer wrote me confidentially 
that there was a seat on the Bourse for sale. I 
asked him, when I went away, to let me know if 
this should happen.” 

“Well?” asked Madame de Targy, totally at a loss 
to understand what this preamble could mean. 

“Because,” faltered Armande, with a pleading 


212 


A PAHlSIA^f BOiVAM'M 


look in her dark blue eyes, “ I thought that perhaps 
it might suit your son.” 

Madame de Targy looked up quickly. 

“My son?” 

“Yes. Why not? He has now acquired an ex- 
cellent knowledge of business. They tell me so at 
the bank.” 

“ Where, thanks to you, my dear, he has been 
able to retain his position.” 

Armande gave a half-impatient shrug of her 
shoulders. 

“They are delighted with his intelligence and 
aptitude,” she continued. “If, instead of remain- 
ing a simple clerk, he were to go into business, he 
would undoubtedly succeed, and how much better 
that would be for both of you.” 

“ Possibly. But, my dear Armande, a seat on the 
Bourse costs a large sum of money.” 

Armande leaned forward and took her old friend's 
delicate hand in both of her own. 

“My dear Madame de Targy,” she said, with the 
greatest earnestness, and her voice trembling a 
little with emotion, “I would like, as much as pos- 
sible, to avoid allusions to the past, which holds for 
us both, for me as well as for j^ou, so many painful 
memories. But I must recall to you that I was, 
wholly against my will. Heaven knows! the cause 
of all the disasters that have overwhelmed you and 
your son. Monsieur de Targy atoned for an error 
that was not his own with the happiness of his 


A PARISIAN ROMANOK 


213 


life. As soon as I was a widow and mistress of my 
own actions, one of my first thoughts was to repair, 
as much as possible, so crying an injustice. But 
how could I do it? I would have been only too 
happy to ret urn him that fortune which he con- 
sidered it his duty to place in my hands; but, 
knowing your son as well a*s I did, I feared not only 
to be refused, but that my offer would offend him.” 

“You were right, my dear,” said Madame de 
Targy, softly. 

“ Then, I tried to think of some way in which I 
could be useful to him, without hurting his feelings, 
and I believe that I have found it. You must in- 
duce him, dear madam, to purchase this seat, and 
accept from me, as a loan, the necessary sum to pay 
for it. It is the simplest thing in the world ; he can 
repay me from his profits. Does not my proposition 
seem to you a very reasonable one.” 

Madame de Targy^s eyes were full of tears, as 
they rested upon the fair face of the young widow, 
so full of generous enthusiasm. 

“Such an offer, my dear Armande,” she said, “is 
what might have been expected from your kind 
heart, and I acknowledge that, as far as I am con- 
cerned, I would be willing to accept your loan. 
But, with Henri, it is a different matter. I don’t 
know what he would say.” 

“ But why should he not accept?” exclaimed the 
baroness, persistently. “What reason can he offer 
for not doing so. Ah!” with a shade, of sadness, 


214 


A FABIHIAN FOMA^VJ!i 


‘‘perhaps he would be unwilling to accept any 
service from me personally.” 

“From you personally?” cried Madame de Targy. 
“What nonsense! How could you think such a 
thing as that?” 

Armande flushed, as she replied with some em- 
barrassment : 

“ He treats me, it seems to me, in a very singular 
manner. One would say, that in spite of himself 
he feels still a little rancor against me as the cause 
of his troubles, and, especially, since my mourning. 
During the settlement of the affairs at the bank, to 
which he applied himself with so much zeal, you 
have no idea how cold his attitude toward me was. 
I do not mean that he was not always courteous 
and devoted to my interests, but it seemed to me as 
if it were painful for him to meet me.” 

As Madame de Targy listened to these words, a 
new idea suddenly entered her brain, a hope that 
made her heart beat faster. Perhaps, after all, 
there was a new and brighter future for that son 
she so dearly loved. 

“My dear,” she said, affectionately, “you are cer- 
tainly mistaken. I know that he has every sym- 
pathy and respect for you in the world.” 

A’-mande smiled sadly. 

“I wish I could believe it,” she said, “but, at all 
events, I beseech you, use all your influence to in- 
duce him to accept what I propose, and I shall be 
very happy.” 


A FAIilSIAN BOMANGR 


215 


Madame de Targy drew tbe lovely girl, for she 
was scarcely more than that, toward her, and kissed 
her on the forehead. 

“You are one of the dearest girls, I know,” she 
murmured. 

“Please tell him,” continued Armande, “that, in 
permitting me to render him this little service, he 
does not inconvenience me in the least. He 
knows that, he knows my fortune. And, moreover, 
tell him, in order to remove any lingering scruple 
that he may have, that the wealth of tliis earth, for 
which I have never cared much, is of less conse- 
quence to me than ever. I intend to abandon the 
world.” 

Madame de Targy started. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, in bewilder- 
ment. “You, surely, are not contemplating enter- 
ing a convent.” 

“Hot exacty that,” replied Armande, with a far- 
away look in her sapphire eyes, “that is, I do not 
intend to take the black vail, but I have almost re- 
solved to become a sister of charity. Why is it not 
the best fate for me? I have no children, no hear 
relatives. What better future can I have than to 
make a family of all those who suffer?” 

“But,” exclaimed Madame de Targy, both alarmed 
and pained, “you are so young. Ho one can tell 
what the future may have in store for you. You 
can still begin life all over again.” 

' “Life has been one long disappointment to me,” 


216 


A PABI6’IA2f' BOMAJVCK 


replied Armande, with a sigh. “I renounce it.” 

Madame de Targy regarded her fixedly, as if en- 
deavoring to read her inmost heart. 

“So, my dear child,” she said, slowly, “there is 
nothing, and no one attaches you to this world, no 
one whom you may regret having abandoned?” 

Armande shook her head, sorrowfully. 

“Are you very sure?” persisted Madame de 
Targy. 

“What is the use of hopeless attachments?” re- 
turned the young widow, a look of sorrow and 
mortification contracting her brow. 

Madame de Targy laughed softly. The ambigu- 
ous words told her much, and her fears were set 
at rest. 

“You do not mean me,” she said, slyly, “when 
you say that, for you know how dearly I love you.” 

Armande was silent for a moment, as it fearful to 
betray too much, and then she said, timidly : 

“Oh, no, I am sure of your affection.” 

“Are there others that you mean, then, my dear?” 
asked Madame de Targy, with the gentleness and 
tenderness a mother might have used in interro- 
gating her daughter. 

Armande was evidently greatly troubled. Her 
cheeks were crimson, her lips trembled, and there 
was just a suspicion of tears about her lashes. 

“I am afraid so,” she murmured, in a scarcely 
audible voice. “We women are rarely mistaken, 
you know, in matters of that sort.” 


A PARIISIAN ROMANCE. 


217 


Madame de Targy was satisfied. She thought 
she understood the whole affair, now; and her 
maternal heart swelled with pride and joy. 

“Sometimes, we are, however,” she said, mean- 
ingly, “when we are too modest. I think I know 
whom you mean, and you are. mistaken.” Here, the 
good woman allowed her desires to get the better of 
her judgment. “How could anyone remain long 
insensible to the charming qualities of mind and 
person that you possess.” 

Armande knew her secret was suspected, if not 
discovered ; but it was a comfort to her sad heart to 
have a confidante. 

“The one of whom we speak,” she said, with 
downcast eyes and fiuttering heart, “ does not look 
upon me, I am afraid, with the same indulgence 
that you do, his heart is faithful to his first love, 
and ” 

“But,” interrupted Madame de Targy, eagerly, 
“that is but a memory that must eventually be 
effaced, especially since it is a memory with so 
much bitterness connected with it.” 

Armande rose, as if half fearful to prolong the 
conversation. 

“It is time for me to go,” she said. “Good-by, 
dear, dear Madame de Targy.” 

“But, why not remain to dinner? The doctor will 
be delighted to see you, I am sure.” 

Armande hesitated a moment. 

“Unfortunately, it is impossible,” she said, “I 


218 


A PARISIAN ROMANCK 


have an engagement in town to-night, and I must 
return by the next train.” 

Madame de Targy thought it prudent not to in- 
sist, and, it was with a radiant face that she 
watched the graceful, black-robed figure of the 
young widow, until it had disappeared amid the 
foliage in a turning of the walk. The good woman's 
heart was lighter than it had been for many a day. 
Through a rift in the clouds, she saw a ray of the 
sunlight of hope. Poor Henri! Surely he had 
suffered enough. Why should not happiness come 
to him, at last, in the love of this noble woman. 
Surely, he could not long be indifferent to her 
beauty, intelligence, and goodness. 

Full of the project, that night, while the doctor 
was smoking his cigar in the garden, she found an 
opportunity to say to Henri, in an indifferent 
manner : 

‘‘By the way, I had a very interesting caller to- 
day.” 

“Ah! who was that?” 

“Armande Chevrial.” 

“Indeed ! Has she returned from Dieppe?” 

“Yes,” said Madame de Targy, watching him 
narrowly out of the corner of her eye. “She re- 
turned yesterday, and she passed the afternoon 
with me to-day. And in the course of our conA^'er- 
sation she told me that there was a seat on the 
Bourse for sale.” 


A PAEISTAJ^ EOMAE^CK 


219 


“Yes?” said Henri interrogatively, as his mother 
paused, apparently for a reply. 

“What do you think of it?” 

“Think of it?” retorted Henri. “Why, my dear 
mother, how can it concern me? You might as 
well tell me that the chateau of Versailles was for 
sale.” 

“Would not you like to have a seat on the 
Bourse?” 

“What a question! Of course I would. I would 
naturally prefer to make a hundred thousand francs 
a year to drawing a salary of five thousand. But, 
for me to think of a seat on the Bourse is very 
much like a child longing for the moon.” 

“Not necessarily” said Madame de Targy, slowly. 
“Armande offers it to you. She proposes to lend 
you the necessary sum to purchase the seat. You 
will pay her back ; of course that is clearly under- 
stood.” 

Henri was silent for a moment. 

“Did she come for that express purpose?” he 
asked at last. 

“Yes. What do you think of the proposition?” 

It was twilight, and the lights had not yet been 
brought in, so it was too dark for her to see his ex- 
pression clearly. 

“What do you think of it, mother P’ he asked, 
quietly. 

“I do not think you would do wrong to accept it.” 

“No, certainly I should not do wrong, but, it 


A FAJiJSIAJSr BOMANCK 


rJO 

seems to me, that it would not be a very nice thing 
to do, all the same. As a rule, and they are right, 
men do not like to accept favors from women. It is 
a reversal of relations that is unnatural, not to say 
repulsive ; and it is apt to give rise to evil suspi- 
cions. On your account, my dear mother, I am 
sorry to refuse this chance to achieve fortune, but — 
I have suffered much, and I have lost all, except 
my honor ; and I wish to keep that intact, without 
even the shadow of a stain. I am sure, mother, 
that you approve of my resolution.” 

“Most assuredly, my dear boy. I think your 
scruples are most honorable, but pardon me if I 
say that I think you carry them too far. It is 
possible to exaggerate anything, even a point of 
honor.” 

“What, mother,” said Henri, smiling faintly, and 
coming over and sitting beside her in the gathering 
dusk, “you, who are so scrupulously delicate in all 
your thoughts and actions, say that to me?” 

“My dear boy,” she replied, half-jestingly, half- 
seriously, “ when have you seen a mother too 
scrupulously delicate, as you call it, when her 
children were in question? Never in the world! 
But still, in this case, really you exaggerate ; you 
are wrong ; without sufficient reason, you will 
cruelly hurt and mortify Madame Chevrial. Now, 
be honest about it! If such an offer were to come 
from any one else, would you refuse it? No. And 
you will not accept it from her because, for one 




221 


reason or another, you do not like her; because you 
cannot forget that she is the origin of all your 
misfortunes ; because your heart is full of rancor 
and dislike toward her. That is the truth!” 

Madame de Targy did not believe all this in the 
slightest degree, but, in pursuit of her project, she 
was exercising diplomacy to draw from Henri an 
expression of his real feelings. Her words certainly 
had the effect of thoroughly astonishing the young 
man. 

“What are you saying, mother?” he exclaimed. 
“ On the contrary, I feel for her the warmest ad- 
miration and friendship, and have done so for a 
long time.” 

“Ah!” ejaculated Madame de Targy, as if not 
wholly convinced. 

“For I have not told you all, dear mother,” con- 
tinued Henri. “ When I allowed you to believe that 
I was happy and well treated in the employment 
our sudden ruin forced me to accept under Baron 
Chevrial, I deceived you. Never was there a 
slavery harsher, more bitter than that I was forced 
to submit to. The man is no more. His end was 
almost tragical, and I must force myself to forget 
and forgive, but it is difficult to do so. Beneath his 
outside courtesy was a constant sneer. He was a 
brute and a tyrant. No! despite the horrible neces- 
sity to which I was reduced to gain my daily bread 
in his employ, I would a thousand times have cast 
his pretended charity in his face, if I had not been 


222 


A PARISIAN ROMANCR 


helped to bear my lot by the sympathy and pity of 
that angel, whose sufferings from the same hand 
were greater than mine. And yet you say that I do 
not like her.” 

Madame de Targy listened with a happy smile 
which the darkness hid. Surely this was encour- 
aging for her little plot, and she was emboldened to 
speak more clearly. 

‘‘Then why do you treat her in such an icy 
fashion? Why not let her suspect the sentiments 
of gratitude you feel for her? She might be glad to 
know them.” 

“Why? Cannot you guess? Because I might be 
misunderstood; because she has influence, natur- 
ally, with the heads of the bank, and she might 
suspect me of an attempt to curry favor.” 

Madame de Targy was silent for a moment, and 
then she said, with sudden resolution. 

“ There is no need for you to curry favor with 
her. She knows you, respects, and trusts you. Her 
life as well as yours has been a sad one, but it is not 
too late for you both to And happiness. Oh ! Henri, 
my son, if that should come about, how overjoyed 
I should be. Do not let a foolish pride stand in the 
way.” 

As he heard these words from his mother’s lips, 
De Targy was Ailed with a horrified astonishment. 
Was it possible that she so little understood him 
that she could conceive for a moment of his con- 
templating a second marriage? Painful as it was 


A PARISIAN ROMANCK 


223 


for him to speak on the subject, such an idea must 
be destroyed, at once and forever. 

‘‘Mother,” he said, in low, tense tones that struck 
a chill to his listener’s heart, “ hear me, and once 
and for all, understand me. Such a thing as you 
hint at is beyond the range of possibilities. Leaving 
Armande Chevrial out of the question, who, I am 
sure, has no other feeling for me than that of 
friendship, I— I have loved once and shall never 
love again. The day — the day Marcelle left me, 
my heart died. If you love me, never speak of 
this again!” 

And, as if unable to trust himself further, he 
turned hurriedly and left the room. 

Poor Madame de Targy! The tears welled up in 
her eyes as she thought of her charming castles in 
the air, thus scattered in ruins. 


2^4 


A FAUISIAN ROMANCK 


CHAPTER XV. 

IN SPITE OP all! 

Armande Chevrial returned to Dieppe, her gener- 
ous mission a failure, and her heart heavy within 
her. W ith all the good motives in the world, and 
the means to carry. out one’s plans, it is not always 
possible to help those who suffer, and do good to 
those we love ; and it is especially difficult in the 
case of a woman who desires to hold out a helping 
hand to a man. De Targy’s objections to accept 
the baroness’ offer were well-founded. Rightly or 
wrongly the so-called stronger sex revolts from 
receiving aid from the weaker, and — the world is 
censorious. 

Henri had been to see Madame Chevrial before 
her departure, and had said to her, very frankly : 

“ My dear madam, my mother has told me of your 
kind thoughts for me. I am more deeply grateful 
than I can say, but it is really impossible for me to 
accept, even from you, so considerable a loan.” 

“I am very sorry,” replied Armande, simply. 

She made no attempt to urge the point, as she 
realized that to do so would be useless, and a source 
of pain to them both. 

Her whole heart had gone out to Henri de Targy, 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE, 


225 


whose honor and truth she knew so well. Had 
things been different he might and probably would 
have learned to love this woman, who was so 
worthy of him in every way. But circumstances, 
destiny, fate, call it what you will, had been un- 
propitious, and the chance for happiness was 
missed, as, alas! is too often the case in a world 
which strikes us all at times, as if it were mis- 
governed. 

“ Of all sad words of tongue or pen 
The saddest are these — it might have been.” 

* % 4: >ic 4: sic 

One afternoon, three or four days after Ar- 
mande’s visit, Madame de Targy was in the con- 
servatory, busy with scissors nipping off the dead 
leaves of the plants. Doctor Chesnel was an enthu- 
S'iastic lover of flowers, and would go miles and 
spend fabulous amounts to obtain some rare orchid 
or exotic plant. To this lonely old bachelor, his 
flowers were like children, and he lavished on them 
his tenderest care. 

The conservatory extended all one side of the 
drawing-room, and was famous for its wonderful 
collection. It was a proof of the doctor's great 
affection for and trust in Madame de Targy, that 
he allowed her to care for his darlings. 

As she worked, stopping now and then to inhale 
the odor of some marvelous rose or stately lily, 
Madame de Targy sang softly to herself snatches 
of the songs that had been popular in her youth. 


226 


A PAEiSIAN EOMAECR 


Suddenly she became conscious of the presence of 
some one near her, and looking up, she saw the 
master of the house standing in one of the curtained 
arches that opened into the drawing-room. 

“You are home early,” she said, with a smile. 

“Yes,” was the response, “I wish to speak to you.” 

There was something grave in the doctor’s man- 
ner and tone that arrested her attention, and it was 
with a vague presentiment of evil that she lay down 
her shears, drew off her gardening gloves, and fol- 
lowed him into the room beyond. 

“What is it?” she asked, anxiously. * 

The doctor did not answer for a moment. He 
seemed troubled, and at a loss how to begin. 

“My poor friend!” he murmured at last, in a tone 
full of commiseration. 

Madame de Targy, now really alarmed, caught 
him by the arm. 

“What has happened?” she exclaimed. 

“Summon up all your courage!” replied the doc- 
tor, laying his hand upon hers with a firm grasp. 
“ By some fatality, I seem to be always the messen- 
ger to bring you bad news.” 

“Bad news!” echoed Madame de Targy, with a 
quickening of the breath. “But what is it? Tell 
me quickly. It is not Henri? No, he was here but 
a moment ago. What is it? See! I am calm. 
Speak !” 

“Marcelle,” began the doctor; but no sooner was 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


227 


the name uttered than he was interrupted by a low 
cry from the horrified woman beside him. 

“Ah!” she gasped. “Marcelle is alive!” 

“Yes,” said the doctor, in a low voice. 

“ But this is terrible ! What does it mean ? When 
did you hear it?” 

“About an hour ago. This letter was brought to 
me at my office in Paris.” 

As he spoke, he drew an envelope from his pocket 
and extended it to her. Madame de Targy opened 
the letter with a trembling hand. 

“My God! My God!” she faltered, raising to the 
doctor a face convulsed with varied emotions. 

“Is it possible? Is it possible? Here, take it; 
read it. I cannot! I cannot!” 

And she sank down upon a chair, completely 
overcome, and suddenly as weak as a child. 

The doctor, adjusting his eye-glasses, read slowly 
and with much feeling, as follows : 


“My Dear Doctor: — It is a despairing woman 
who now appeals to your old friendship, to your 
charity. Have pity, and make them have pity, too. 
I have been wrong, oh, so wrong! but I have been 
punished, too, and I return so broken, so repentant.] 
If you but knew how many times I have regretted’ 
that I did not perish in the flames, as was reported, 
with all those poor unfortunates. Their anguish 
was nothing to what I have suffered, to what I 
suffer still. If you cannot obtain pardon for me, 
do not come, do not answer; I shall understand. 
And I swear to you that I shall find the courage 
which has hitherto failed me. To-morrow, those 


^28 


A J^AJiJSIAN JiOMA^VI^. 


whom £ have so sorely wronged, and yet so deeply 
loved, will be forever delivered from poor 

“ Marcelle.” 

As the doctor read these words, Madame de Tar- 
gy’s expression, instead of softening, grew harder, 
sterner, and colder. When he had finished, she ex- 
claimed, almost savagely : 

“If she carried out her threat, she would do well, 
but she will not do it !” 

“Can you afford to run the risk?” asked the doc- 
tor, quietly. 

But Madame de Targy would not listen. All she 
could think of was what her son had suffered 
already, and what this unexpected resurrection 
would make him suffer in the future. 

“She will not kill herself,” she reiterated, dog- 
gedly. “You need give yourself no uneasiness on 
that account. As for receiving her, and imposing 
upon my son the shame and agony of her presence — 
Never! Never! Never!” 

“Your son, perhaps, may not agree with you.” 

“My son,” exclaimed Madame de Targy, vehe- 
mently. “Do you think that I propose to tell him 
of this? How can you imagine such a thing? Poor 
boy ! he has suffered too much already ! and by my 
fault! Once, already, I had the weakness and 
cowardice to tell him a secret, which was killing 
me, to be sure, but I had better have died than have 
ruined him by the disclosure. But this time, I keep 


A PAIlISIA^'' BOMANCM m 

my secret, and if it is a crime to do so, I accept the 
consequences.” 

“That is for you to decide,” replied the doctor, 
very gravely, “but do you think that I can keep 
silence?” 

Madame de Targy started; then, rising hastily 
from her chair, she seized the doctor’s hand, and 
cried, in eager, terrified tones : 

“ Ah, my friend, I implore you, I beseech you— do 
not speak. If you do not wish to make me forget 
all your goodness, if you do not wish to make me 
curse your friendship which has been so dear to 
me, let me have my way in this ! leave me free to 
act as I please. I will answer for all ! 1 will take 
all upon myself, I tell you ! Besides, she will not 
kill herself, and you know it well!” 

It was very difficult for the doctor to resist the 
pleading of this woman whom he had loved in his 
youth, and whom, perhaps, after all these years, he 
loved still. But his duty seemed clear to him, and 
he answered, gently but fimly: 

“If she does not, her fate will be even a worse 
one ; you condemn her to sink to the level of the 
lowest of women.” 

Madame de Targy dropped his hands. 

“Is she not so already?” she exclaimed, bitterly. 

“Do we know? And, then, there are degrees. 
Will you be the one to push her on her downward 
course? What will your conscience say to you?” 


230 


A FAHISIA^^ FOMAJiOS 


“My consciecne ! It will tell me that I have saved 
my son!” 

“And God? since you believe in him!” 

Beside herself with anger and misery, she retorted 
with stinging emphasis : - 

“ What is that to you, since you do not believe in 
Him?” 

The doctor shook his head compassionately, and 
said in low, distinct tones, with all the tenderness 
one would use in chiding a well-beloved child : 

“Is this the way to make me do so?” 

She stared at him with wide-opened, frightened 
eves, and then, turning abruptly, she walked away 
to the window, and stood gazing out upon the gar- 
den below. 

The doctor waited quietly ; he felt that his point 
was won. Minute after minute passed, and no 
sound was heard in the room save the droning of 
the bees, as they darted in and out among the 
honeysuckles that framed in the windows. 

Finally, the woman, in whose heart a terrible 
struggle had been raging, came slowly back to 
where the doctor stood. Her face was pale, but 
calm and composed. 

“You are right,” she said. “Pardon me, and 
thank you. It was the mother who rebelled, but 
the Christian has been recalled to her duty. Where 
is she? Where must I go? I am ready.” 

“Ah, I find my old friend again!” exclaimed the 
doctor, warmly, an expression of relief passing over 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE, 231 

his couiitenaiic©. “She is close by, in my carriage 
at the end of the avenue, awaiting her fate.” 

“Bring her to me,” said Madame de Targy, 
briefly. 

In five minutes, a five minutes that seemed an 
eternity to Madame de Targy, Doctor Chesnel re- 
turned, leading a slender, dark-robed figure— Mar- 
celle, but how changed from the brilliant young 
beauty who, only a few years before, had taken all 
Paris captive ! Pale, wan, and haggard, with great 
brown eyes gazing out from her white face as if in 
a dream of hopeless misery, she advanced into the 
room to where Madame de Targy stood, motionless 
and with averted face. Then, releasing herself 
from the doctor’s supporting arm, she sank on her 
knees at the feet of the woman, to whom she had 
been the cause of so much unhappiness. 

”Ah ! madam, I have suffered so much !” she mur- 
mured, in a voice suffocated with emotion. 

Without turning her head, Madame de Targy 
slowly let her hand fall until it rested upon the 
head of the kneeling woman. With a sob, Marcelle 
seized it, and covered it with kisses. 

“Ah! madam!” she said, with the tears streaming 
down her cheeks. “How good you are! How I 
thank you for consenting to see me !” 

“Rise!” said Madame de Targy, with an evident 
effort. 

“No, not yet! not before I have told you how 
wicked I have been, madam, but so repentant^ sq 


232 


A PAJllSIAN BOMAKCK 


humble, so unhappy! Ah! madam, if you could 
have seen me, aftel* my eyes were opened to my 
folly, alone, poverty-stricken, ill, at the other end 
of the world, you would have had pity. Ah ! in 
those terrible hours, if you could know, with what 
an agony of longing my heart turned to that little 
apartment I had so weakly, so shamefully aban- 
doned, and, how it seemed to me that if I could re- 
turn there for just one day near you and — and him, 
not as his wife, not as your daughter, but as the 
servant of you both, how it seemed to me that that 
would be Paradise!” 

She stopped, her sobs choking her so that she 
could not proceed. Deeply moved, Madame de 
Targy hesitated a moment, and then, with a sudden 
impulse, she stooped, raised the unhappy girl, and 
clasped her to her breast. 

“ My daughter ! 

“Mother!” and with a glad cry, she clung convul- 
sively to the noble woman, whose religion taught 
her to forgive. 

The doctor cleared his throat, and, with a sus- 
picious moisture in his kindly eyes, walked away 
to the window. 

“There, there, my child!” whispered Madame de 
Targy, soothingly. “Be calm! you must not waste 
your strength. All is not over, yet.” 

Marcelle raised her head with a shudder. 

“No! I know it! I know it!” she faltered. “And 
I am so afraid of him! So afraid that he will re^ 


A PARISIAN ROMA^XT. 


233 


pulse me, that he will not even see me! Oh! 
madam, implore him to listen to me! His harshness 
would kill me ! I know — I know that it would be 
better for every one, if I were to die, but I cannot, 
I cannot without being forgiven!” 

“Poor child!” 

The doctor turned suddenly from the window 
with a warning gesture. 

“Be careful!” he said, quickly. “Henri is coming 
up the path from the river.” 

Marcelle started from her mother-in-law’s em- 
brace, and gave a quick glance around, like a 
hunted animal seeking shelter. 

“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Madame de Targy. 
“He must not see her thus without preparation. 
He must not!” 

“No,” said the doctor, taking Marcelle, who 
seemed paralyzed with fear, by the arm. “ Into the 
conservatory! Quick.” 

She was scarcely hidden behind a plant, thick 
with foliage, when the door was thrown open, and 
Henri entered the room. 

“Mother,” he said, “come down to the river-hank. 
It is beautiful there this afternoon Why, doctor,” 
perceiving Chesnel, “you are back early to-day.” 

The doctor looked at Madame de Targy, and 
Madame de Targy looked at the doctor, but neither 
of them spoke. Each appeared to be waiting for 
the other. 


234 


A BOMA^^CK 


Henri noticed their embarrassment, and at once 
realized that something unusual had occurred. 

“What is it, mother?” he said. “What has hap- 
pened, doctor? What is the matter with you both?” 

“Your mother will tell you,” replied the doctor, 
pulling vigorously at his gray mustache, to hide his 
agitation. 

Thus forced to make the revelation she so dreaded, 
Madame de Targy summoned up all her courage, 
and began, with her eyes fixed steadily on Henri : 

“ My son, since you left me an hour ago, an event 
has happened which will once more disturb the 
current of our lives — a very grave event, one which 
we were far from expecting and wdiich imposes 
upon us a great and painful duty. Marcelle ” 

She paused. In mute amazement Henri gazed 
alternately at the doctor and his mother. Then, a 
ghastly pallor overspread his face, and through his 
white lips came the scarcely audible question : 

“Marcelle is alive?” 

“Yes,” said the doctor, extending the letter he 
had read to Madame de Targy. 

Henri mechanically took the paper, and then, 
with a visible effort to control his emotion, he read 
it slowly through from beginning to end. 

“Pity!” he said, with an accent of bitterness, 
crushing the letter in his hands. “Well, yes. Go 
and see her, mother. Doctor, will you be good 
enough to accompany my mother? I— I cannot.” 


A PARISIAN ROMANGK ' 235 

The doctor laid his hand on the young man’s 
shoulder. 

“I brought her with me,” he said. “She is here.” 

“She! Here! Already! In this house!” 

“Yes,” said Madame de Targy. “Will you see 
her now? I beg you to do so.” 

“No! No!” exclaimed Henri, with a passionate 
gesture. “Not now — laier. To-morrow, perhaps. 
I must have time to collect myself. To-morrow !” 

He was evidently suffering terribly. The thought 
that the wife he had so dearly loved, loved still. 
Heaven help him! was alive, alive and beneath the 
same roof as himself, and yet that there was be- 
tween them a gulf as well-nigh impassable as that 
of Death itself — this thought wrung his heart as in 
a vice. He could not see her yet — it was impossible. 
Nor could she ever be to him what she had been 
once. He might pardon, but he could not forget. 
That must be clearly understood. 

“Doctor,” he continued, steadying his voice, “see 
to it that she does not misunderstand the feeling 
that dictates my conduct toward her. She does not 
imagine, I suppose, that she can resume with my 
mother and myself the place she once occupied. 
Tell her that she can never be anything in my 
house except a stranger.” 

“My dear boy,” said the doctor, sadly, “when 
you see her, you will be convinced of the sincerity 
of her repentance. When you see how frail she is, 


28 « 


A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


how she has suffered from sorrow and poverty, you 
will be as touched as we have been.” 

“Do not expect it!” replied Henri, his brow con- 
tracted in a somber frown. 

Madame de .Targy, as she heard these words, 
thought with a pang of the poor girl hidden behind 
the foliage, and to whom each word of the conver- 
sation must be distinctly audible. 

“My son,” she said, imploringly, “do not be gen- 
erous by halves. Listen to your heart, which has 
loved her so much, and listen only to it.” 

“My heart, mother! It is because I have loved 
her so much that the thought of her fault, the 
memory of her crime, seems to harden my heart to 
stone. I consent to receive her beneath my roof 
because humanity, charity, duty command me to 
do so. I receive her to save her from another 
crime, or to remove her from the lowest degrada- 
tion of poverty. But, ask no more of me. To do 
more would be outrage, madness!” 

And he threw himself down in a chair and cov- 
ered his face with his hands. 

Madame de Targy approached Doctor Chesnel, 
who stood leaning against the mantel-piece, moodily 
regarding the unhappy young man, and feeling 
that this was a complication which he was power- 
less to straighten out. 

“What shall I do? whispered Madame de Targy, 
grasping his arm. “What shall I do? And I pity 
her so much,” 


A rARlalAN ROMAKGS, 


187 


Doctor Chesnel sighed deeply. 

do not know,” he admitted. “I understand 
Henri’s feelings. Perhaps it would be better not to 
receive her at all. It would be an impossible life 
for you all.” 

“Nevertheless, I shall make one more effort.” 

And she moved toward the place where Henri sat 
motionless, with bowed head. 

“Henri,” she said, and the young man raised his 
face, all drawn with suffering. “ Henri, it is not for 
me to blame you. I have not the right to do so ; 
for my first thought, when I heard just now of the 
return of this unhappy girl, was one of hatred, 
savage, criminal hatred. One is not always master 
of one’s first impulses. But it is/Our duty to stifle 
these first cries of passion and selfishness, and to 
appeal to higher inspirations to govern our conduct. 
You know this as well as I, my boy, you who have 
already sacrificed all that you had in the world to 
the demands of justice. But there is, Henri, some- 
thing higher than even justice, there is a duty, a 
virtue more worthy still a soul like yours— I mean, 
forgiveness. Forgive her!” 

Henri rose to his feet. There was evidently a 
violent struggle going on within him. 

“No,” he said, at last. “No, I cannot. There is a 
specter between us, that tenor. I am not a saint. 
I am a man. And I cannot, I will not, receive as 
my wife Juliani’s mistress!” 

For a second, after these words, there was silence ; 


A PAMlSlA^f^ noMANCP. 


m 

and then, a low cry made them all turn. Erect, be- 
neath one of the arches of the conservatory, stood 
Marcelle. She had cast aside her hat, her hair had 
become unloosened, and streamed down her back a 
mass of golden bronze. Her face was ashen, her 
lips trembling, and her gaze was fixed upon Henri, 
her whole soul burning in her great dark eyes. 

Henri struggled against the emotion that seized 
hold of him. Pale as death at the apparition of the 
woman he had adored, he stood like a statue, moved 
to the very depths of his being. 

She advanced until she was within a few steps of 
him, and then, in a low voice, every accent of 
which was distinctly audible throughout the room, 
she said : 

“Juliani’s mistress! Ho! Ho! not that. I was 
weak, foolish, vain, ungrateful, all that and more, 
but there is one crime I have not been guilty of. I 
have been faithful to you ! I swear it!” 

It was the truth, and not one of the three who 
listened to these words doubted them. Instinctively, 
they felt that in one respect at least they had 
wronged her. A great weight seemed lifted from 
Henri’s heart. 

“Marcelle’” he cried, passionately. “Is this true?” 

“On my soul! I have loved only you!” 

With a gesture of unutterable love and longing 
he opened wide his arms. She looked at him with 
staring, terrified eyes, as if she did not understand, 


A FAmSIA2^ BOMA^CM 239 

as if she could not believe that she was really for- 
given. 

“Marcelle!” he said, softly. “Come!” 

As by magic, her torpor vanished, and with a 
glad, thrilling cry, she sprang forward and was 
strained to his breast, his burning lips seeking her 
icy ones. 

The husband and wife, after months of torture, 
anguish, and despair, were united at last, never to 
be separated again. 

4 : 

In the villa at Asnieres, with Doctor Chesnel and 
the dowager Madame de Targy, live Henri and 
Marcelle. The doctor insisted upon it, declaring 
that he was lonely and his life would be miserable 
if they did not do as he wished. “Needs must, I 
suppose, when a certain gentleman drives,” laughed 
Henri; and so it was settled. After their stormy 
past, they are happy. Henri will probably never 
be rich, but he is making a comfortable living, and 
the quiet, domestic life he lives just suits him. 
Marcelle loves her generous husband, with a love 
she never felt even in the days of their prosperity. 
All her longings for social triumphs have vanished, 
and she is content, caring little be she rich or poor, 
provided she shares the fortunes of her husband. 

The doctor is as kind of heart and sarcastic of 
tongue as ever. Madame de Targy, free from all 
cares and troubles, is happy in the happiness of 
those she loves. Will the romance which these two 


A PAJilSlA^^ ROMaKOP. 


m 

good people missed in their youth, return to them 
in the autumn of their lives? Has the curtain fallen 
for them, or is the play only just beginning? Who 
knows? 

In the poorest quarters of Paris, where vice, pov- 
erty, and misery abound, can be seen day after 
day, ministering to the unfortunate, a slender, 
sweet-faced woman in the dark robes of a sister of 
charity. In a life of self-abnegation, of devotion 
to others. Sister Genevieve, known to the world as 
the Baroness Chevrial, has found, if not happiness, 
at least peace. 

[the end.] 


WOMAWS TEMPT ATIOIST,^^ by Bertha M. 
Clay, will be published in the next number (9) of Tes 
Primrose Series. 


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PRIMROSE EDITION 

ISTo. 4:. 


Katlileen 

By JULIA TRUITT BISHOP, 

is a pure and beautifully written love story. It is 
talked of by press and public alike ^ and 
is the sensation of the day. 



Kathleen Douglas. — Like the plot of an artfully constructed play 
is this cleverly told romance, by Julia Truitt Bishop, of love and mys- 
tery. It is the story of a cruelly suspected yet innocent wife, against 
whom suspicions are aroused and disseminated by a rejected wooer— a 
man with the outward semblance of a saint, yet who conceals the 
heart of an insatiate wretch. The interest is heightened and artisti- 
cally sustained by making the daughter an inheritor of her mother’s 
supposed disgrace. The golden thread of a pleasing love episode is 
intertwined with the tragic element of the romance, and from the 
opening to the close the reader never loses sight of the heroine, the long- 
suffering but eventually rewarded' Kathleen Douglas.— Bo/fimore 


For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or will be sent, postagf 
FREE, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt d 
price, 60 cents, by the publishers, 

STREET &. SMITH, 

P. 0. Box 2731. 23 to 31 Bose Street, BeTr York. 




IsTo. 5. 


Her Koyal Lover, 

By ARY ECILAW, 

is a story of thrilling interest. The scenes are 
very dramatically drawn and the characters 
graphically portrayed. 


Her Eoyal Lover. — This is an admirable translation of a fascinating 
romance from the French, by Ary Ecilaw. It appeals especially to 
wives who aim to attract admiration, and to husbands who are so 
jealous that “trifles light as air” often disturb the serenity of the 
household. It brings the heroine close to the verge of disaster ; it is 
so artfully woven that the persistent secret wooer is on the eve of being 
rewarded for his duplicity ; and the maddened husband is about to be 
humiliated, when, lo ! utterly unexpected events expose rascality and 
vindicate the imprudent but faithful wife. The story is vigorously and 
dramatically narrated, with many strong situations, and never lags in 
action.— CAronic^e. 


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BERTHA M. CLAY’S 

Copyright Novels, 

IN' 

The Select Series. 

Fx'loe, 25 OexL'tjS DESeioIi.. 


FULLY ILLUSTRATED. 


No. 22.-A HEART’S BITTERNESS. 

No. 28.-A HEART’S IDOL. 

No. 36.-THE GIPSY’S DAUGHTER. 
No. 37.-IN LOVES CRUCIBLE. 

No. 39.-MARJORIE DEANE. 

These novels are among the best ever -writ- 
ten hy BERTHA M. CLAY, and are enjoying 
an enormous sale. They are copyrighted and 
can he had only in THE SELECT SERIES. 


For '^ale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, post- 
paid, to any address in the United Stat#M» or Canada, on receipt of 
price, 25 cents each, by 

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P. 0. Box 2784. 31 Boas Street, N«W Ycarlu 


Mrs. Georgie Sheldon’s 

Copyright Novels, 

iisr 

The Select Series. 


Fx^ioo, 25 Ooxxts Fsiolx. 


FULLY ILLUSTRATED. 


No. 16-SIBYL’S INFLUENCE. 

No. 24-THAT DOWDY. 

No. 43-TRIXY. 

No. 44 -A TRUE ARISTOCRAT. 

These novels, from the pen of our gifted au 
thor, who writes exclusively for us, are among 
her most popular productions, and hold the front 
rank in first-class literature. 


For sale Ty all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be ser-t, post- 
paid, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt oJt 
price, 25 cents each, by 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

P, 0. Box 2734. 31 Bose Street, New 


JULIA EDWARDS’ 

COPYEIGHT NOVELS 

IM* 

The Seleet Series. 


Price, 25 Cents Each. Fully illustrated. 


No. SO-PRETTIEST OP ALL. 

No. 35-THE LITTLE WIDOW. 

No. 38-BEAIITIFUL BUT POOR. 

No. 47-SADIA THE ROSEBUD. 

No. 65-LAURA BRAYTON. 

These novels are among the best ever written 
by JULIA EDWARDS, and are enjoying an 
enormous sale. They are copyrighted and can 
be had only in THE SELECT SERIES. 


For sal© by all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, post- 
paid, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt of 
price, 25 cents each, by 

STREET SMITH, Publishers, 

P. 0. Bos 2734, SI ROSE STREET, NEW lORK. 


THE SELECT SERIES 

OF 

POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRIGHT STORIES. 

Wo. 60— WON ON THE HOMESTRETCH, by Mrs. M. C. WUUams 25 

No. 59— WHOSE WIFE IS SHE? by Annie Lisle 25 

No. 58 — KILDHURM’S OAK, by Julian Hawthorne 25 

No. 57 — STEPPING-STONES, by Marion Harland 25 

No. 58— THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT, by Mary A. Denison 25 

No. 55 — ROXY HASTINGS, by P. Hamilton Myers 25 

No. 54— THE FACE OF ROSENFEL, by C. H. Montague 25 

No. 53— THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S, by Jean Kate Ludlum 25 

No. 52— TRUE TO HERSELF, by Mrs. J. H. Walworth 25 

No. 51— A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN’S SIN, by Hero Strong 25 

No. 50 — MARRIED IN MASK, by Mansfield Tracy Walworth 25 

No. 49-GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY, by Mrs. M. V. Victor 25 

No. 48— THE MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE, by A. M. Douglas 25 

No. 47— SADIA THE ROSEBUD, by Julia Edwards 25 

No. 46— A MOMENT OF MADNESS, by Charles J. BeUamy 25 

No. 45— WEAKER THAN A WOMAN, by Charlotte M. Brame 25 

No. 44-A TRUE ARISTOCRAT, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 25 

No'. 43 — TRIXY, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 25 

No. 42— A DEBT OF VENGEANCE, by Mrs. E. Burke CoUins 25 

No. 41 -BEAUTIFUL RIENZI, by Annie Ashmore 25 

No. 40 — AT A GIRL’S MERCY, by Jean Kate Ludlum 25 

No. 39— MARJORIE DEANE, by Bertha M. Clay 25 

No. 33 — BEAUTIFUL, BUT POOR, by Julia Edwards 25 

No. 37— IN LOVE’S CRUCIBLE, by Bertha M. Clay 25 

No. 36— THE GIPSY’S DAUGHTER, by Bertha M. Clay 25 

No. 35 — CECILE’S MARRIAGE by Lucy Randall Comfort 25 

No. 34— THE LITTLE WIDOW, by JuUa Edwards 25 

No. 33— THE COUNTY FAIR, by Neil Burgess 25 

No. 32 — LADY RYHOPE’S LOVER, by Emma G. Jones 25 

No. 31 — MAPlRIED for GOLD, by Mrs. E. Burke Collins 25 

No. 30 — PRETTIEST OF ALL, by Julia Edwards 25 

No. 29 — THE HEIRESS OF EGREMONT, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis 25 

No. 28 — A HEART’S IDOL, by Bertha M. Clay 25 

No. 27 — WINIFRED, by Mary Kyle Dallas 25 

No. 26 — FONTELROY, by Francis A. Durivage 25 

No. 25 — THE KING’S TALISMAN, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr 25 

No. 24 — THAT DOWDY, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 25 

No. 23— DENMAN THOMPSON’S OLD HOMESTEAD !!!!!!! 25 

No. 22— A HEART’S BITTERNESS, by Bertha M. Clay 25 

No. 21 — THE LOST BRIDE, by Clara Augusta 25 

No. 20 — INGOMAR, by Nathan D. Urner 25 

No. 19 — A LATE REPENTANCE, by Mrs. Mary A. Denison 25 

No. 18 — ROSAMOND, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 25 

No. 17 — THE HOUSE OF SECRETS, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis 25 

No. 16 — SYBIL’S INFLUENCE, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 25 

No. 15 — THE VIRGINIA HEIRESS, by Mrs. May Agnes Fleming 25 

No. 14— FLORENCE FALKLAND, by Burke Brentford !...."!!!!!!! 25 

No. 13 — THE BRIDE-ELECT, by Annie Ashmore 25 

^aese popular books are large type editions, well printed, well bound, and 
For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers ; or sent, 
pt of price, 25 cents eacli, by the publishers, 

STREET & SMITH, 

85 to 31 Itooe Street. New York^ 


P. 0. 3025 8734. 


W OMEN’S SECRETS 


Hie public axe at last permitted to take a peep into th e 
wonderful and mysterious art of 

“HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL.” 

We will soon become a nation of Beauty, Bead how, in the table of 

.CONTENTS! 

THE VALUE OP PERSONAL BEAUTY.— Tills chapter relates to the beauty 
in “Genius,” “Strength,” “Religion,” “Poetry,” and “Chivalry.” 

THE HISTORY OP BEAUTY.— Mode of acquiring it by the people of different 
nations. What people are the most beautiful 1 

VARIOUS STANDARDS OP BEAUTY.— Tastes of civilized and uncivilized 
people. The Prench definition of beauty. 

THE BEST STANDARD OP BEAUTY.— Defines the Head, Hair, Eyes, Cheeks, 
Ears, Nose, Mouth, Bosom, Limbs, and in fact every part of the human form. 

HOW TO RAISE BEAUTIPUL CHILDREN. — To newly married people, and 
those who contemplate entering the conjugal state, this chapter alone is 
wen worth the price of the book. 

HOW TO BE BEAUTIPUL.— This chapter is full of Information, as it not only 
tells how to beantify every part of the form and features, but gives recipes 
and cures for all the ailments which tend to mar or blemish. 

BEAUTY SLEEP.— To be beautiful it is not necessary to be like the bird that 
seeks its nest at sunset and goes forth again at sunrise. You will here find 
the required time to be spent in bed, the positions most conducive to health, 
facts regarding ventilation, bed-clothes, adornments, and other useful hints. 

BEAUTY FOOD.— Instructs how, when, and where to eat, and also treats of 
Digestion, Complexion, Foods which color the skin, etc. 

HOW TO BE FAT.— The information imparted in this chapter will be a boon to 
thin, delicate women, as it tells what to eat and what to avoid, also what to 
drink and how to dress when plumpness is desirable. 

HOW TO BE LEAN.— If corpulent women will carefully follow the Instructions 
herein, they will be happy and enjoy life. 

BEAUTY BATHING AND EXERCISE.— This chapter is Intended for every 
one to read and profit by. There is no truer saying than “Cleanliness is next 
to Godliness.” 

EFFECTS OF MENTAL EMOTIONS ON BEAUTY.— After you read this, wo 
feel safe in saying that you will not give way to anger, surprise, fright, grief, 
vexation, etc., but will .at all times strive to be cheerful and make the be»t 
of life. 

HOW BEAUTY IS DESTROYED.— The women are warned in this chapter 
against quack doctors and their nostrums, the dangers of overdosing, and 
irregular habits. 

HOW TO REMAIN BEAUTIFUL.— It is Just as easy for those that are beauti 
ful to remain so as to allow themselves to fade away like a flower which 
only blooms for a season. 

HOW TO ACQUIRE GRACE AND STYLE.— Without grace and style beauty 
is lost. They are as essential as a beautiful face. To walk ungracefully oi 
awkwardly is not only vulgar but detrimental to the health. 

THE LANGUAGE OP BEAUTY.— This chapter will enable you to read a pei> 
son and learn his or her character, without the use of a phrenological chart 

CORSETS.- When and what kind should be worn. How they were originated* 
and by whom. 

CYCLING.— The latest craze for ladies is fully described in this chapter. 


lOMEirS SECRETS; Of, How to leBeaiitlM 

THE BEST SELLING BOOK OF THE DAY. 


Just Out. Price 23 Oexits. 

Por Hale by all Newsdealers^ 


STREET & SMITH, PubUshers, 

31 Bcse 


A\ANUAL UBRARY. 


No. 1-THE ALBUM WRITER’S ASSISTANT. 

No. 2-THE WAY TO DANCE. 

No. 3-THE WAY TO DO MAGIC. 

No. 4-THE WAY TO WRITE LETTERS. 

No. 6-HOW TO BE H AYE IN SOCIETY. 

No. 6-AMATEUR’S MANUAL OF PHOTOGRAPHY. 

No. 7-OUT-OF-DOOR SPORTS. 

No. 8-HOW TO DO BUSINESS. 

No. 9-THE YOUNG GYMNAST. 

No. 10-THE HUNTER AND ANGLER. 

No. 11-SHORT-HAND FOR EVERYBODY. 

No. 1 2-THE TAXIDERMIST’S MANUAL. 

For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or will be sent, postage 
FEEE, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt of 
price, 10 cents each, by the publishers. 


the hand book library 

No. I— WOMEN’S SECRETS; or, How 

TO BE BEAUTIFUE. . . .25c 

Nos. 2-3— TITLED AMERICANS. . 50c 

No. 4— SELECT RECITATIONS AND 

READINGS. ... 25c 

No. 5— ZOLA’S FORTUNE-TELLER. 25c 

These po’ ular books are larfre type edill ns. well printed, well bound, and In 
ha ndsome covers. For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers ; or sent, postage 
free, on receipt of price, by the publishers. 

STJFLJtSliiT cfc iSlVXXTDEa:, 

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P. 0. Box 2734. 


Stories of Strange Adventure Ashore and Afloat. 


No. 23-BUFFALO BILL’S BEST SHO”, hj Ned Buntline. 

No. 22-TIIE STRUGGLE FOR MAVERICK, by J. F. Fitts. 
No. 21— ROCKY MOUNTAIN SAM, by Burke Brentford. 

Now 20-THE HOUSE OF SILENCE, by Dr. J. H. Robinson. 

No. 19-TllE IRISH MONTE CRISTO’S TRAIL, by Aiex. Robert, 
son, M. D. 

No. 18-THE YANKEE CHAMPION, by Sylvdhus Cobb., Jr. 

No. 17— FEDORA, from the famous play of the same name, by 
Yictorien Sardou. 

No. IG-SIBALLA, THE SORCERESS, by Prof. Win. H. Peck. 
No. 15 -THE GOLDEN EAGLE, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

No. 14-THE FORTUNE-TELLER OF NEW ORLEANS, by Prof. 
Win. H. Peck. 

No. 13-THE IRISH MONTE CRISTO ABROAD, by Alex. Rob- 
ertson, M.l). 

No. 12— HELD FOR RANSOM, by Lieut. Murray. 

No. 11 THE IRISH MONTE CRISiO’S SEARCH, by Alex. 
Robertson, M. D. 

No. 10 — iTa rOSCA,* from the celebrated play, by Yictorien 
Sardou. 

0-THE MAN IN BLUE, by Mary A. Denison. 

No. 8 -BEN HA MED, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

No. 7-CDNFESSIONS OF LINSKA. 

No, (> -THE MASKED LADY, by Lieutenant Murray. 

No. 5 - THEODORA, from the celebrated play, by Yictorien 
Sardou. 

4-THE LOCKSMITH OF LYONS, by Prof. Wm. H. Peck. 
No. 3 -THE BROWN PRINCESS, by Mrs. M. V. Victor. 

No. 2-THE SILVER SHIP, by Lewis Leon. 

No. 1-AN IHISH MONTE CRISTO. 

For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or will be sent., postage 
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25 cents each, by the publisners, 

STREET & SMITH, 

25-31 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK. 


P. 0. BOX 2734. 



A FIRST-CLASS PAPER FOR ROYS AND GIRLS. 

ISSUED WEEKLY. PRICE 5 CENTS PER COPY. 


Stories are constantly running through the columns of Groon News 
from the pens of 


WM. H. THOMES, 
OLIVER OPTIC, 
HORATIO ALGER, Jr., 
GEO. H. COOMER, 
CHAS. BARNARD, 
JAMES OTIS, 
EDWARD S. ELLIS, 
HARRY C ASTLEMON 


CAPTAIN MACY, 

W. B. LAWSON, 

Lieut. LOUNSBERRY, 
M. QUAD, 

Lieut. JAS. K. ORTON, 
MAX ADELER, 

“ FRANK,” Author oi 
“Smart Aleck.” 


The illustrations and typographical appearance of Good News ar* 
In keeping with the high literary merit of its contents. We aim t<^ 
produce 

The Best Weekly of the Times for Boys and Girls. 

and, by virtue of our long experience, we have won for Gk)OD News tho 
first place in the popular favor of all young Americans. 


We will send you No. 1 to No. 10 Good News, inclusive, for 10 cents, 
as samples. 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 


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THE BEST AND BRIGHTEST! 



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FOS SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLEBS AND NEWSDEALEIH 
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STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS 
31 I^ose Street, 


NEW YORK. 



pri/T\ros^ Series 

O IT- 

COPYRIGHT NOVEI2S. 

ISSUED 5E/I\I-/I\0I^S[iCY. PHI<?E, 50 

No. I-ANOTHER MAN’S WIFE, 

By Bertha M. Clay 50 

No. 2-THE BELLE OF THE SEASON, 


By Mrs. Harriet Lewis 50 

No. 3-DOCTOR JACK, 

By St. George Rathborne 50 

No. 4-KATHLEEN DOUGLAS, 

By Julia T ruitt Bishop 50 

No. 5~HER ROYAL LOVER, 

By Ary Ecilaw 50 

No. 6 JOSE, 

By Otto Ruppius 50 

No. 7-HIS WORD OF HONOR, 

By E. Werner 50 


No. 8-A PARISIAN ROMANCE, 

By A. D. Hall 


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P. O. BOX 2734. 25-31 ROSE Street, New York. 



FIGHTING FOR IT. 

Here is a frood-natured soramble for a cake of Pears’ Soap, which only 
illustrates how necessary it becomes to all people who have once tried it 
and discovered its merits. Some who ask for it have to flirht for it in a 
more serious way, and that too in drug stores where all sdrts of vile and 
inferior soaps are urged uiM>n . them as substitutes. But they can always 
get the genuine Pears’ Soap, if they will be as pereistent as are these urchins. 

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